The Islander
by Vena Grey
Summary: It was just a body. She'd seen dozens of them before, most far worse than this. But since then, whenever she sleeps, she finds herself in a place meant for children to go in their dreams. An old-fashioned whodunit, Captain Swan style. AU.
1. The Body

**The Islander  
><strong>_A Once Upon a Time fiction by Vena Grey_

**Summary:** It was just a body. She'd seen dozens of them before, most far worse than this. But since then, whenever she sleeps, she finds herself in a place meant for children to go in their dreams. An old-fashioned whodunit, Captain Swan style. AU.

**Disclaimer:** Sometimes, I like to play with other people's characters.

**Author's intro: **As this story is fairly different from a lot of fanfiction, I thought I'd let you know just what you're getting yourself into before you get three chapters in and go, "what the hell is happening?"

So, here's what's up: this story is a police procedural along the lines of Law & Order, NCIS, and the like. It takes place in the span of two weeks and features, among other things, a magical dream world, an insider trading scheme, detectives behaving badly, and few instances of resurrection. Because of the way I was introduced to Once - over the span of less than a month during the summer of 2014 - when I sat down to write this, I had three seasons' worth of characters, subplots, etc running through my brain. Before I knew what to do, there were characters from many seasons and in varying states of being alive or dead interacting with each other on my pages. That confusion, my subsequent obsession with Sherlock, and my already twisted mind conspired to produce the similarly twisted mess of a story you're about to read, at least if I haven't scared you off by the end of this note. Wink.

A couple of last things before I stop rambling and let you read. First, because it's been brought up by my beta, I am American but I use British spelling. I'm not sure why but I have done so as long as I can remember. Second, credit where credit is amply due: **PhiraLovesLoki** has very generously been betaing for me amidst a hectic schedule, and I'm thankful for her help.

If you're up for the challenge, then, I give you _The Islander._ I hope it doesn't burn your eyes. Also, if you have any questions, especially about the insider trading stuff, please please _please_ ask and I will be GLAD to help clarify, and I _won't_ think any less of you for asking. :)

Love,

Vena

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One<br>**_The body_

The problem with a room with a lot of windows in an old building in the city is that without fail, every witching hour when the bars closed, the sound of sirens would split the air in the dark room like she wasn't inside at all and she'd roll her face into the pillow and groan. She'd tried everything she could think of: extra weather stripping, earplugs, a box fan for the ambiance, and when _that_ didn't work, even one of those whirring machines Mary Margaret had bought for her son to help him sleep through the summer thunderstorms. Nothing.

Usually it was a matter of just rolling over again, pulling the covers over her head, and forcing her mind into nothingness long enough to fall asleep. There were nights, though, when she'd already had a hard go about it getting there in the first place—nights when she'd turn over, roll on her back and map the grooves in the ceiling, always catching a glimpse of red out of the corner of her eye with an ungodly number like _2:15_ or _4:27_ or _3:48 _blinking back at her. That morning, her whirring thoughts deposited her just shy of her normal rising time. It was still dark, but with a measly twelve minutes until 5:00, she exhaled, swung herself out of bed, and put her hair up for her morning run.

Henry's school was just a couple of subway stops away. She didn't know how he did it, but her son, reared in the chaos of her college co-op after she'd found herself pregnant at eighteen, had the miraculous ability to wake up the first time his alarm went off barely forty minutes before he had to be there, shower, dress, eat, _read_, and dart out to catch his train as soon as it pulled into the station and was _never late._ _Superhuman,_ she sometimes thought. But it was nice, all the same. Forty minutes before school was 6:50, leaving Emma enough time after her own early rise to catch a 15-minute train both ways to Central Park and run a good seven or eight miles in the morning calm before he was even up. It was the one time, after the bars closed but before the morning rush, that the city felt small, and sometimes as her feet beat a path through the trails she would imagine she was in another place, running through the forest, or, if she was feeling motivated, on the run from some dangerous foe.

But it was the cop in her that never let her leave home without her gun, and when she saw the crowd of onlookers gathering around an immobile shape on the path ahead she reached for her holster before she noticed two other men in uniform had beat her to it. Still, out of instinct, "NYPD," she said a little breathlessly, holding the badge in front of her. She met the eyes of one of the officers.

"Get back," the other said, waving away the crowd.

The man was lying face down on his left arm, his right forward as though he'd meant to catch himself. A small pool of blood crept out from his chest, opposite where, facing her, a remarkable hole tore through the leather of his jacket, and it was then that she decided to look to one of the officers.

"How long has he been here?" She didn't recognise either of them.

"The body's still warm; less than half an hour, I'd imagine." He held her gaze. "The medical team is on their way."

"Any signs of foul play?"

"Aside from the hole through his back?" He smiled a little despite the situation. "The dirt on the trail tells us he was running through the woods when they caught up with him, but he doesn't have much on him now."

"Think whoever was after him took something?"

"We don't know yet, but we will soon enough. We'll keep you posted if it's serious. Sidney Glass," he extended a hand over the body and she eyed it a moment before doing the same.

"Emma Swan."

"Well, Emma, sorry to have kicked off your morning this way, but I think we can take it from here. Good to meet you, despite the circumstances."

She looked up from the body and saw he was looking at her. "Sure, you too." And then she rose to her feet and was off again, catching the 6:30 train as it was leaving instead of arriving, but still back in time to have Henry's breakfast cooking before he was awake, like any other morning.

* * *

><p>The flurry of action when she arrived at the station that morning was surprisingly average compared to what she'd expected. Thankfully, it was Ruby's turn to get the coffee that day, and the junior detective didn't even look up from the stack of papers she was sorting through to hand Emma her drink. "Thanks," she muttered as she passed. Her partner was already standing by her desk, boring holes into the side of her head with his sharp gaze.<p>

"Were you going to tell me you found a body in Central Park while you were running this morning?"

"Hello to you, too, Graham," she quipped, setting her briefcase on her chair, straightening her jacket and steeling herself before meeting his eyes. "I didn't find it. If you already knew about this, you would know there were two other officers already there when I found him."

"Yes, Regina called after hearing from Officer Glass that you'd found them. I just wanted to make sure you were alright—you weren't on duty." She felt his hand on her arm before registering its presence, and when she did she shrugged it off.

"I'm fine," she said slowly. "I had my gun, and I left when they said they didn't need help. No questions asked, no rules broken."

He exhaled slowly and nodded. "I know. I trust you." He looked like he wanted to add something but stopped himself. "Look, Emma, I know it's been a while since the last one, and if you want to talk about it—"

"I'm fine," she repeated, this time with a small smile. "I'm going to go talk to Regina before I get settled in. Graham, you don't need to worry about me." She took her coffee and was brushing past before he could say anything else.

She knocked twice at the Captain's door. It was Emma that spoke first once she entered.

"Graham told me you'd gotten a call from Sidney Glass that I'd found a body in Central Park this morning."

"Glass told me you'd run into them, yes." Regina looked up from the stack of papers she had in front of her. "Might I ask what you were doing in Central Park that early in the day?"

"I run there every morning before Henry wakes up. I left when they said they had it covered."

"I know, Swan. You weren't out of order. I just wanted to know if you saw anything."

"No, he was already dead by the time I got there. It looked like he'd been chased."

"And you didn't hear anything?"

"Nothing unusual. Glass said he thought the guy had been dead half an hour by then."

"Which would have put you on the other side of the park, so you wouldn't have heard anything. Especially not a stabbing." She ran a hand over her face.

"They used a knife?"

"That's typically what a stabbing entails." She dropped her hand to the table and sighed, shaking her head, silently apologizing. "I'll let Glass know. Thank you," she finished, and Emma turned.

The rest of the day was a blur. That morning hung over her and Graham like a wet blanket. As they wrapped up their previous case, he would stand too close, touch her too much, always behind her as though he were protecting her from something, acting as though what she'd seen that morning were some sort of disturbing anomaly as opposed to a standard part of her job. Lunch with Ruby was a reprieve. But then she had a briefing, then a patrol shift. Graham almost looked like he wanted to say something as she was leaving, but didn't, and his concern nagged at the back of her mind the whole way home.

When she arrived home that evening, Henry was still at soccer practice. An hour-old text informed her that he would be having dinner at Avery's that night and would be staying overnight to work on a project they'd been assigned together, so she didn't need to wait up for him. She ran a hand over her face and sighed. It was good timing, actually, and the Martins were good people, so he'd be fine—no, that wasn't it, she reasoned. The day felt twice as long, and before she knew what she was doing the whiskey was falling into the glass and she was floating to Henry's Xbox, depositing _Good Will Hunting_ into the open tray, herself back on the couch, and concentrating her entire being on zoning out to the fullest extent of her abilities.

It didn't make sense that this was bothering her. She'd encountered the same situation she'd found this morning a dozen times—all things considered, this one was relatively tame in her line of work. That wasn't it. Graham had been unusually…_I don't know, protective,_ she reasoned, but he'd been doing that for a while, and she'd never wanted to think about why. Ruby? Ruby had been disturbed by the report when they'd talked about it, but she still wasn't used to the idea of people being killed like this. And Regina had almost expected her to report the news, but though she too had seemed troubled, her ability to approach it with such serenity was enviable, minor lapses aside.

Emma ran a hand through her hair and pulled herself back to the movie. _I'll bet it's just me, _she decided. _It's probably nothing._ When she sipped her drink, the burn in her throat was calming. She set it on the floor. And before she could think again, the room around her went dark.

* * *

><p>She'd never seen this place before. The sand below her feet was course and rough, like on the shoreline that passed for a beach not far from her third foster home in Maine. That one was her sixth overall, and by the time she reached it she was entering seventh grade. She took up running, then, in whatever kind of weather Maine could throw at her; the crunch of the sand beneath her shoes drowned out not only the snide remarks echoing in her head after another first day at school but also the nag of her own subconscious that she was just some unwanted kid no one cared about.<p>

But the water before her wasn't the blue-grey tumult of the North Atlantic. It was overcast, but this water, she knew, was the purest blue-green she could imagine. And behind her, instead of the sparse outer piers of Portland, were trees and flowers of the most vibrant colours, a thick forest that wasn't necessarily inviting but from which this obscure sense of _adventure_ seemed to radiate like a wind.

_What is this place?_ She thought. There didn't appear to be anyone here, no signs of civilisation, and yet, she didn't quite feel like she was alone.

When she looked down, however, she was puzzled. On her arms were the sleeves of a red leather jacket she'd thought she'd lost years ago. She checked the tag in the inner seam—the _ES _she'd written to mark it was as there as it always had been. Past the necklace, a golden circular thing she didn't pay much attention to, she saw on her feet the short Timberland boots she'd _vividly_ remembered setting fire to in a Viking funeral at the end of her post-graduate European backpacking trip with Mary Margaret. _That's not possible,_ she thought. _This has to be a dream._

"And so it is," an accented voice attached to a man she had _not_ heard approach sounded from behind her. She tried not to jump. He smirked a bit at the effort; she narrowed her eyes, at which he gestured grandly to the land behind them and she felt at her hip pocket for her gun. No dice. "This, so they say, is a land where you can have anything you want. Evidently it works, but yes," he turned back to her then and she started a little, "as it is a dream, that would be the catch." He raised an eyebrow. "Now who might you be?"

"That's none of your business." She stepped back as though meaning to leave, her expression guarded. He picked up on it.

"You know, you _can_ leave at any point. All you have to do is wake up." That smirk again. It was then that she noticed his clothing: black, everything, long leather jacket, a complicated vest resembling alligator skin, both that and the linen shirt half open and displaying both a substantial amount of chest and a strange silver necklace she, for some reason, found herself wanting to touch. She shook her head once and his smirk grew such that it reached his eyes. "Or, you could stay here, and keep me company as long as your curiosity suits you."

And at _that,_ she snapped to attention and deliberately did _not_ dwell on the fact he'd made her curiosity sound like something dirty. Instead, she turned and quickly made a beeline for the forest behind them.

"Or I could get the hell away from _you_ and figure out what I'm doing here in the first place," she huffed. She heard him chuckle to himself as she marched off and suppressed a groan of protest. His eyes were so trained on her she almost felt heat on her back.

He gave her thirty seconds' head start.

* * *

><p>The maze of trees and tropical plants she found herself in didn't seem to lead much of anywhere. She proceeded in what she <em>thought<em> was a straight line, finding the forest floor's lack of elevation change rather irritable. Stranger still was the fact the only sounds she heard were the ones she was making. The foliage rustled as she pushed it aside, but the treads of her boots were quiet on the forest floor. There were no animals, at least not that she could see. This both reassured and troubled her; she hadn't yet seen any fruit aside from small berries growing on the island either.

A more pressing concern, she figured, was water. But as she thought about it, it occurred to her she wasn't thirsty. Not only _that_, she wasn't tired. It had to have been at least an hour and a half of walking by then, but at this rate, it appeared she could have gone on for days just as she was.

As she questioned the peculiarity of this place and her seeming lack of physiological needs, a fallen tree presented itself to the side of her beaten path as though by magic. She didn't question it, opting instead to sit and study the unchanging, strangely silent forest as she might an alien planet. A second rustling only moments later pulled her attention back to the route she'd taken. She wasn't surprised to see the man she'd met on the beach emerge through the leaves—to her slight alarm, however, the impulse that ordinarily would have made her get up and run again didn't present itself. Still, she narrowed her eyes.

"You've seriously been following me this whole time?" she asked flatly. This time, though, he smiled.

"Aye. At first I thought I'd imagined you, so I wanted to be sure."

"Sure of what? I'm definitely here, not that I know where here _is_, exactly, but I don't think I should be." She laughed a bit. "I _really _need to be getting back."

"In that case, in what order should I proceed?"

"What?"

"Well, should I first tell you where you are, how to leave, or why you're here? Take your pick."

She looked at him intently, replying immediately, "Where."

"Well, you're in Neverland," he shot back, stepping a few paces closer. "That was the easy one, and explains how you're here and how to leave. You're asleep, so to leave, you just wake up."

"You make it sound so simple."

"Well, as simple as waking up." The smirk was back, and as he was now standing uncomfortably close she rose to her feet. "Don't you want to know the last answer?"

His blue stare was so intense it made her shiver. "I thought you'd covered your bases."

"No, I've neglected one thing," he raised his hand and pushed her hair from her face, grin growing just so as he heard her breath catch. "Why you're here."

And then, her right foot came down on his left and she pushed against his chest and took off through the forest with the agility of a cat. He swore and ran after her.

* * *

><p>The advantage to seeming <em>no<em> physical limitations in this place was that her pace five minutes in was no slower than when she started running away from that creep. The disadvantage, of course, was that _he_ knew the terrain; when she caught a glimpse of him blocking her path, she changed course without breaking stride, grinning just a second when she heard him swear and attempt to match her turns.

And then, it was so obvious. She turned again, this time further away, then again toward the way she'd come, then straight forward to where she was going, continuing in that nature until she couldn't hear him anymore and she felt the exhilaration flood over her like a wave. She pushed herself faster, now not to elude him but because the rush of the wind in her hair and on her skin felt like flying. She'd never run like this before. So, just to try it, she levered herself with grace off the trunk of a tree, landing ten feet away and keeping on, and before she knew it was bounding through the trees in a way that was _not humanly possible._ _He's right,_ she thought between breaths. _This _is_ a dream. _

When the trees gave way into a small clearing, she stopped, not to catch her breath but to just _look_. _I can wake up whenever I want,_ she decided. She could run vertically up a tree, stand astride the branches and stare at the sky, if she felt like it. When she turned back the way she'd come, though, she felt her heart sink: there he was again, standing this time with his arms crossed sternly, a glint of something silver in his left hand.

And that's when she saw it. Her eyes went wide. The silver glint was an enormous metal hook, and he wasn't holding it—it _was_ his left hand.

"How the hell do you keep finding me?" Her voice came out smaller than she liked, and she couldn't look away from his _hook._

"I'd been _trying_ to tell you that—"

But before he could finish, she was gone.

* * *

><p><em>I don't know if I mentioned earlier, but the first draft of this story is already finished. I'll be updating every Monday as best I'm able. We've got twelve chapters and an epilogue, and this is (probably) the only chapter that will have a long author's note. Crossing my fingers.<em>

_Fanfiction has made reviewing so much more convenient, now that the little box is at the bottom of the page. Do me a solid and leave a review on your way out, would you? _

_See you next week!_

_Vena_


	2. The Case

**AN: **It begins. Many thanks to **PhiraLovesLoki** and **SaharaDesiderata **for betaing.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two<br>**_The case_

Emma awoke in the middle of the night to a blue TV screen and a sore back. It took a few seconds for her to remember where she was; she'd fallen asleep on the couch during the movie, she figured, thankful that Henry was staying at Avery's so she wouldn't have to explain why. She sat up abruptly, her foot tapping the whiskey she'd set on the floor and nearly knocking it over. She set it on the coffee table. _What time is it? How long was I gone?_

_3:15,_ her watch blinked at her. She leaned back and willed the ceiling to explain to her why she couldn't sleep through the night.

And she wouldn't, not now. As she thought about it, Emma realised with surprise that she not only wasn't tired, she felt downright _awake,_ as though it were the middle of the morning rather than the middle of the night. The blue of the TV screen was making everything look frozen, so she turned it off, opting instead for the light, and, without even considering whether she would try and sleep again, got up to fix herself the most luxurious breakfast she could think of.

It wasn't a realistic option, sleeping now. She'd been an insomniac for years; Mary Margaret had envied her in college, between her almost supernatural ability to already be awake whenever her toddler needed her to the more mythical ability to work long hours into the night without having to feel it the next day. It wasn't like that, she'd explained once. The legend persisted. Now, she thought perhaps her friend wasn't so far off, though of course this decision would probably reckon itself to her in twelve hours with an extra shot or two of espresso.

The memory of the dream she'd had came crashing back to her as she was cracking eggs. She swore as one of them slid down the wrong side of the skillet toward the gas burner and almost threw the thing off the metal prongs as she switched it off, swearing again when the hot metal burned her hand as she made to remove it before clearing her mess. _Get it together,_ she told herself. She felt shaky—literally. As she looked again at her hands, they were quivering just so, as though remembering how it felt to lever off the trees like a monkey and run Olympic sprinter-style through an island that was supposed to be the subject of children's fairy tales.

Her eyes widened. _Fairy tales. _A man with a hook for a hand. _Captain Hook?_ She laughed beside herself at the thought. _I thought he had a perm and a wax moustache. _

And with that, she waved it off. Stranger things had happened to her in dreams than meeting fictional pirates. While it was easy enough to put away, though, she found it more like a memory in its hold on her conscious, and she was nearly finished preparing her breakfast by the time it slipped away.

As she started in on the meal, she read through the briefing papers she'd received the previous day. It was connected to the case she and Graham had been working on before she'd found the man in the park yesterday—she paused a little at the thought, made sure she could swallow, and proceeded. Some kind of insider trading scheme. It wasn't up her usual alley, but its fallout effects were, as the evidence was coming in faster and faster that some of the murders and other violence they'd been dealing with over the last several years were connected to deals associated with this firm, almost like the mafia.

And yesterday afternoon, the connection became no longer just a lucky guess. The man in the park had been a John Doe when she'd found him, carrying no identification, and his blood didn't return a match in the federal system—that is, until Graham had thrown out the possibility that he wasn't American, at which point Regina, as Captain, had placed a few calls through the Assistant Chief, who directed them through the FBI until _Interpol_ _(holy shit,_ she'd thought_)_ returned a match from Edinburgh of an Irish citizen living in Scotland. When, with that, the case from that morning was shifted quite clearly beyond the jurisdiction of Officer Glass' precinct, a sense of dread Emma hadn't been able to source locked onto her stomach just long enough for her to learn that no, this particular one was beyond her jurisdiction as well, but not entirely. The murder weapon—a hunting knife with initials BB found that afternoon about a quarter mile away, buried dirty and matching the man's blood—had come from a pawn shop in Brooklyn.

And then it became confusing as to what her role was, it being still too early in the day to think about this, so she pushed the papers aside and tried to focus her attention on the food she'd prepared for herself.

Some 45 minutes later, Emma was lacing up her running shoes when her phone lit beside her. Graham.

—_Mind if I join you?_

_Very much,_ she thought before sighing to herself. She closed her eyes and took a couple breaths. _He's not trying to be overbearing; maybe he's just concerned. _She did up the other shoe. _And maybe it's nothing and he really does just want to run at five in the morning._ It wasn't entirely convincing, but it was enough for her to swallow her second thoughts and reply with:

—_Okay. Meet me at 57__th__ in 15_

Phone, gun, and badge in their holster, Emma was still pulling her shirt on as she slid out the door. It was some effort to keep her mind purposefully blank the whole trip. When she saw her partner waiting by a lamppost, looking almost like he was in pain but putting on a smile when he saw her, she returned it the best she could as she jogged up to him.

"I usually do the whole periphery, think you can handle it?"

"Only if you can," he replied good-naturedly, and they were off.

With Graham's longer stride putting her pace a little faster than usual, their rate was such that conversation was initially laboured, then silent. Emma knew he noticed when she deliberately looked left, away from the place the man had fallen from the woods yesterday, when they passed that spot. As they neared where they'd began, she slowed, making her way toward the pond, and as though reading her mind, Graham anticipated her, raising a hand to her shoulder and squeezing a bit. To her surprise, she didn't shrug it off. More so, he didn't press.

And that was one of her favourite things about Graham. Despite the big-brotherly attitude, he knew when she needed space, and he didn't coddle her or treat her like something breakable. They looked out for each other—and, she supposed, in not telling him about what had happened yesterday, she'd unwittingly slipped on their unspoken agreement.

"How long do we have?" He asked as they neared the waterfront.

"About half an hour. I still need to change."

"You're telling me," he laughed a bit, glancing down at himself. "Come on, I'll buy you coffee."

"It's my turn to get it today. Ruby will be pissed."

"Well, then, I'll buy _both_ of you coffee. Come on," he steered them toward the park entrance, leaving no room for argument. Emma rolled her eyes.

"Fine."

They talked good-naturedly at that point, taking their time in leaving the park that was empty but for others like them. Graham picked up on her odd profusion of time, at which she informed him that no, she wasn't usually this available, but Henry stayed the night with a friend to work on a project, and even crazier, she'd woken up at 3:15 after the weirdest dream and been too awake to go back to sleep. He asked about the dream. She remembered all of it. But she also remembered cleaning eggs off the stovetop, and told him all she could remember was running through the forest faster than should be possible, running into a man with a hook for a hand before she woke up.

"What, like Captain Hook?" He laughed a bit.

"Or something. I have no idea." And then, after figuring she wouldn't sleep again, she'd made a sinfully large breakfast and tried to go over the briefing but decided it could wait. "You've probably been over the whole thing, Mr. Responsible."

"Guilty as charged." He held up his hands. "Want me to tell you or should I let you find out?"

"Spare me the misery?"

Graham smiled, nodding once. "Of course. We're looking into the prints on the knife—once we know who it is, why they wanted to kill Liam Jones, perhaps why he was in America in the first place, we look for the network. It seems straightforward enough." The shop was nearly empty at that hour, but he was careful not to say too much in the open. Emma nodded.

"There's still something bothering you about this."

She paused, thinking. "Yeah. I can't shake how weird it is that the guy I randomly found yesterday would wind up with his case as close to our jurisdiction as it can be. It's just too…I don't know, too much of a coincidence." She pressed her temples. "It's almost like it was on purpose."

And at that, and a flash of the pained expression he hoped she didn't see, Graham offered his hand. She took it momentarily as she realised they both had to get back. "That would be a bit too perfect," he disagreed. The expression was gone as quickly as it came. As they parted at 57th, he winked that she could reimburse him that afternoon, and disappeared into the underground before seeing her flip him off in response.

Yet, something was bothering her. She'd seen the expression just then, the same one he'd worn when they met that morning, _and_ she'd seen him try to hide it. _Now that I think about it, we only talked about me. That's weird. It's almost like he's hiding something. _As the train pulled up and she boarded, however, the thought escaped her, retreating into her subconscious as the doors pulled closed.

* * *

><p>Ruby's lukewarm vanilla latte in tow, Emma arrived home to a pile of clean dishes and a note for her on the fridge whiteboard. She heard the shower running before she noticed Avery absorbed in his phone in the living room. "Hi, Ms. Swan," he said without looking up.<p>

"Hey, Avery. What're you two doing here so early?"

"Henry forgot something for the project, and we had time so he did that." He nodded at the dishes. "Well, I may have helped. But I think you have the perfect son. Hey, is that for me?" He nodded at the second coffee in her hand. As he finished, the door to the bathroom opened, followed by "Hi, mom," and the sound of her son's door closing. She laughed to herself.

"Sometimes I wonder. I made a huge breakfast this morning, you guys are welcome to whatever's left."

"Oh, we took care of that, too," Avery smirked and gathered his things, resuming whatever he was doing with his phone on foot. A few moments later, Henry's door opened.

"Hey, you're back kinda late. What took you?"

Emma laughed again, louder this time. "Sometimes I think _you're_ the parent—cleaning my mess, asking where I've been. Are you real?" She smiled. "Thanks for doing the dishes, by the way. And nothing exciting; Graham ran with me this morning and we did our coffee run early."

"I like Graham. He looks out for you," he replied without looking at her, shrugging on his backpack. "Wish us luck on the project, I guess? And good luck with your new case."

"How did you—" They were out the door before she could finish. But when she looked at the counter, she wanted to smack her head on it. There, in plain view of two very curious seventh-graders, was her briefing on what was now her segment of an international cartel case. Luckily, it had been in its folder; unluckily, it had been labelled.

She felt her phone vibrate in its holster.

—_I didn't look. Not that I don't trust him, but I cleaned up to reduce the amount of time Avery would be alone with it. Don't think he noticed. And I would have done it anyway. Love you_

_Smart kid_, she thought as she turned the water on and undressed.

* * *

><p>"Em<em>ma,<em> my coffee's cold," Ruby faux-pouted. Emma rolled her eyes, grinning at her junior's antics.

"There's a microwave in the break room. It's caffeine, don't complain."

Her back now to her younger colleague as she turned toward her desk, she missed the mischievous grin that spread its way over Ruby's face as she followed her there.

"Now, why would my coffee be cold? Let's think. Emma normally gets it right before coming to work, which would mean that if it's cold, she must have gotten it earlier. She wouldn't get it in the middle of getting ready, which would mean she had to get it after running, which would mean," she turned, smirking hugely as she ticked off Emma's story item for item, "that something kept her from going right home this morning, 'cause nothing breaks Emma Swan from her routine with Henry. What were you up to this morning, _detective?"_ She crossed her arms triumphantly and stared Emma down her nose.

"Nothing," she replied, just barely too quickly. Ruby perked.

"Did I get it?! Oh, _come on!_ You know that was good."

"You forgot that Henry had to be gone this morning, or I'd have gone straight home."

"_You_ are avoiding the question, detective." She spun around so she was blocking Emma's way.

"Ruby, come _on,_" she rolled her eyes again, ducking past her younger colleague. "I went running with Graham. _Really_ not exciting. And yes, we got the coffee afterward. You can thank _him_—he treated you."

Ruby smirked. "Well well, Emma Swan, nicely played. Hot running date, _and_ Henry did your dishes for you this morning? I wanna be you." She winked and turned back to her desk, trying and failing not to laugh at Emma's dumbfounded expression before whispering, "hide your phone screen next time." She looked down—yes, she _had_ been texting Mary Margaret about that as she'd walked in.

Emma deflated a bit, smiling despite herself. She clapped her friend on the shoulder. "You're good."

"I know."

As she turned back to her desk, though, that little twinge of concern that had wormed its way into her gut when she'd first seen Graham's expression that morning gnawed at her again. It had been building up, something that was getting harder to ignore between them—even though, as she had when she'd accepted his running offer, she'd made a valiant effort not to notice it. She'd just hoped it would go away—they were _partners. _It was not only unfeasible, it was impossible. She had to kill that idea before it grew.

Still, she found herself glancing at his desk, just to be sure. Mercifully, it was empty. He wasn't in yet. She set her papers and briefcase down, shrugging out of her jacket as she saw him walk in. As he passed her, he paused.

"Meet me in the briefing room once you've had a chance to look over the files?"

"Sure, I'll be there in 15."

* * *

><p>He was already there when she entered. She closed the door behind her.<p>

"What did you find that you wanted to meet in here for?"

"I needed that." He gestured at the whiteboard that took up the entire back wall. "There's a grid in the files that I wanted to show you, plus I did some digging that wasn't in there." He handed her a handwritten sheet of legal paper, which she slipped into the file. "That's for later. For now, I need to show you something."

While his back was to her, she opened the file as she followed him to the board. It was definitely _not_ a chart—in fact, it looked like a letter. She shut it again and boxed away her curiosity; Graham launched right into his discovery.

"Liam Jones' visa is an H-1B. It's the skilled non-resident visa—for people with technical skills who want to work in this country but don't want to immigrate. It's what my father had been on when he moved us here when my mum was pregnant before we went back to Belfast, and why I'm a double citizen. But that's irrelevant, and this where it gets interesting." He drew a circle around Liam Jones' name, then a line to another circle he filled with the name William Smee. "This man owns the pawn shop the knife that killed Liam came out of. That's in the file. And this," he drew another circle above the other two, writing in it _Ariel Fisher_, "according to Victor Whale in forensics, is a match for the fingerprints on the knife. The only problem is," he drew a dash through the circle he'd just drawn. "Ariel Fisher is dead. Died in a car crash with her boyfriend a week ago in Long Island. The knife was in the tacklebox in her car. And the BB on the handle?" He looked at her. "Bill Blackbeard, her mother's grandfather."

"Did Ariel steal the knife? I mean, if it was a family heirloom…"

"No, I don't think so. I thought about it after I got home this morning. I don't have hard evidence for this, but I think Smee may have looted it from the crash site when the tacklebox fell open. It'd be worth a good sum to a collector. And that's what this pawnshop is. It's his collection. I looked into it before we met just now. This isn't a typical pawnshop, these are antiques the likes of which I've never seen."

"Do we know who stole it from there, then?"

"That's another hole, but we do have a bit of a lead. If Smee is dealing in rare antiques, he has to be dealing with a certain level of…clientele." Graham drew another circle, and wrote the ambiguous _Cartel_ inside. "That, or the more likely scenario: it's a cover. The knife wouldn't look out of place, there; perhaps the items are code names for some accounting tricks. Either way, if we were able to tap into the transaction history for this shop, I imagine there might be a pattern connecting us here." He tapped below the _Cartel_ circle. "Even better—I'd say I knew just the man to call, the problem of course being that his name is Liam Jones."

"What?"

Graham's face was alight. "Jones was a data engineer. If anyone would have been able to trace something like that, it would've been him. If we can establish this? Emma." He stepped away from the board, taking both her shoulders and staring at her more alive than she'd seen him in months. "Not only would we have a motive, we'd have our network. It was no amateur that killed Liam—they left no prints behind. But if we could find this killer," he stepped back to the board, underlining the _Cartel_ circle several times, "we might just have _this_. I know it seems like a long shot, but I just have a feeling_. _And if Smee stole the knife? Who's to say he didn't orchestrate the entire crash?"

"Graham…"

"Emma, _please._" He set the marker down. "We don't have anything else to go on right now—they left _no_ evidence. Let's just try and see how far we can take it." When he stepped back to her, he took her hands this time instead of her shoulders. "I'll even say for you to keep investigating other possibilities. But this could _be something._"

She sighed, pulling her hands back, and looked intently at the file on the table beside her. "Okay," she said, finally. "But if you're going to do this, I'm going to help. See what else you can find out about this shop." She looked at him, inhaling slowly before adding, "I need to make a call."

* * *

><p>He wasn't in, but she didn't expect him to be. He was a stock trader on the floor with the rest of them at the opening bell—<em>probably doesn't even have his personal phone on him,<em> she thought once she'd hung up.

"_Hi, Neal,"_ she'd begun. _"It's Emma. I know it's been a while, and we can talk about that later, but I need your help. My partner thinks that a financial firm called the Voyager Group might be connected to a case we're working on, and there may be others like them turning up. I'll explain later. Call me back when you can."_

* * *

><p><em>Things are about to get real, yo.<em>

_Review or die. :) See you next week (if you survived)._

**_Terms:_**

_Data engineer: a fusion of normal engineer and really badass computer programmer. They work with data systems (i.e. systems that turn numbers into useful information), and a data engineer is someone responsible for setting up data systems that people who use the data rely on. They're often tasked with finding data that's relevant for analysis in a given situation.  
><em>

_Financial firm: a company that deals with investments, lending, insurance, and securities (things that prove you either own something or are in debt - stocks and bonds are some examples)._


	3. The Wager

**AN: **I'm going to go ahead and warn you now about the first third of this chapter. Stick with it, it's important. I promise. Also, I'd like to give a major shout-out to **mryddinwilt** helping me crack Tumblr. A link to my nascent offsite fiction hub will be up in my profile later today.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three<br>**_The wager_

Neal Cassidy woke up the morning of Tuesday the 17th with a feeling that something was different about the day. It only lasted a minute. He sat up slowly, the freshly-laundered sheets pooling around him as he did so—it was a bright morning, the linen curtains on the east-facing windows no match for the sun that was coming later and later each day.

NPR's Morning Edition was playing softly from his alarm. He listened until the end of the segment before turning it off, careful not to disturb the sleeping form beside him. Tamara had been working with the new guy—that zealot, Greg Mendell—on the Asian markets and had spent far more than her share of extra hours in the office lately. _But_ _they make a good team_, he thought with a twinge of jealousy.

He pushed it aside, taking stock of the morning he had ahead of him. Nothing unusual so far: _an 8:00 with Forecasting, _he observed in his calendar. That was no big deal, though the prospect of facing the equally and bizarrely energetic team of Walsh and Scarlet that early would later prompt him to order a Black Eye to his usual Americano before heading in. After that, a couple of acquisitions to sign off on before a portfolio meeting with his immediate superior, Blue, at 11. _Great,_ he thought. That left a couple of hours free for him to spend at the exchange. It was a good day, he decided, as he programmed the coffee machine to start brewing when Tamara would wake up and left her half a bagel, an orange, and a short note.

As he exited the cab he'd hailed on his way out of his first meeting, he felt his phone begin to vibrate. He dug it out of his pocket as someone held the door open for him, glancing at the screen for half a second before looking up _just_ in time to avoid spilling his second hot coffee of the morning all over Albert Spencer.

"Excuse me, sorry," he acknowledged the older man with a nod.

"Good catch. No harm done." He looked up, pausing as Neal hit _ignore_ on his phone without looking at the screen. "Neal, it's good to run into you. There's actually something I'd wanted to discuss with you."

"Yeah, what is it?"

"As it happens, one of the key investors in Umbrasom at Georgios has backed out at the last minute."

"Really?" He took a step back toward Spencer. "That's the buzzy one people were saying might be the next Rozerem, right? Why?"

"Just last-minute cold feet, I would imagine. They were supposed to start trials two weeks ago, but now everyone is holding their breath as to whether they'll even be able to go _that _far. I thought, 'who do I know that might be willing to come in as an angel investor?' And of course, Ms. Blue was the first person that came to mind—in fact, if you have some time this afternoon, I'd be happy to sit down with you and tell you more."

Neal thought about it for a moment. He looked down at his phone, meaning to check his calendar, when he noticed whom it was he'd hung up on earlier. _Shit. Emma._

"You know what, do you have some time right now? I'm actually heading to a portfolio meeting with her in a couple of hours, I can bring it up with her then."

Spencer smiled. "That's the spirit. I've left all my files on it at the office—I'll tell you about it on the way over."

* * *

><p>Neal paused, narrowing his eyes just so as he considered the implications of Spencer's offer. This was a tremendously risky move on his part, and frankly he didn't understand why the man was making this offer at all. Umbrasom was supposed to be a sleep drug, so taking it to trial would be dangerous and expensive—he couldn't help the worry that flashed through his mind as he looked over how much, exactly, the recalcitrant investor was pulling out of the project. $350 million was a significant chunk of change. All the same, if this drug ended up being successful—the prospects Spencer was showing him made the claim this drug would have a fraction of the side effects others of its type had had, which he'd believe when he saw it—it could be huge for his firm.<p>

Which made it seem like a great idea—at least, for him.

_So why is _Spencer_ passing it up?_

The older man was still talking, so he drew his attention out of his thoughts and back to the information in front of him. As he cleaned off the last of his now-lukewarm coffee, he was glad, for once, to be on his way to a portfolio meeting. Within a few minutes, he'd collected the information he'd need to pass on to the senior management and was on his way out the door, tossing his cup in the trash and swearing again as he realised Emma had left him a voicemail.

To his surprise, once he'd arrived to his next meeting and begun to explain the prospect, Blue and the others were enthusiastic. _So this _is_ a good idea, then?_ Blue in particular was revered for her good judgment. They'd still need to double check some things, of course. Still—for once, a deal that _seemed_ too good to be true just…wasn't. _That's what the feeling I had this morning was about,_ he decided. It occurred to him in passing that he should probably run this by his father first. Though definitely not what Neal would call a good man, he was a thorough investigator. After another moment of thought, though, he decided against it—so was his superior.

A few hours later, the arrangement had been prepared, and he returned to the floor to find Spencer. The deal he'd put together was substantial—nothing earth-shattering, but befitting of both the scope of the project and the ambition behind its release. Their firm, Reul Ghorm, would take up the $350 million investment the shadow investor had withdrawn and help the drug move forward to trial. It was the largest deal he'd ever made. And while it was riskier than he'd expected, the risk was far from enough to dissuade him.

"Glad to see we're on the same page," Spencer smiled as he leafed through the papers.

Despite his smile, though, Neal felt an icy twinge in his chest. He didn't indulge it. Instead he shrugged, chalked it up to his excitement, offered his hand, and left the floor.

* * *

><p>It was hours ago that she'd placed her call, still apparently without a word. He'd watched as she'd worked through lunch, calling whoever she could think of that might be able to dig up something on the shop's transaction history—nothing. What little they did have to report came up clean.<p>

At some point Graham came up to Emma's desk. Upon seeing her frustration, he offered to trade segments: she could take over finding who stole the knife from the shop, perhaps who brought it there in the first place, and he could resume tracing the money trail as far as their jurisdiction would take them.

"Thank you," she said with relief.

He couldn't help but notice that she'd barely touched the file. It was open to the segments on Smee's shop, but he didn't press. She was concentrating—it was better to wait. The letter was still resting just inside the front cover. She seemed almost to have forgotten about it.

"You should eat something," he advised as she flipped through web pages, not leaving his spot against the wall of her cubicle.

"I will; there's just something I want to find first."

"I'll bring you something," he offered as he left, but she barely registered, just a faint nod as she began typing something with urgency.

They'd been partners eight months, ever since he'd started in her department. And while she'd always impressed him, it hadn't gotten to the point of being a problem until recently. He didn't know exactly when the desire to touch her had become impossible to ignore, or when his concern for her safety had evolved into protectiveness, but as much as he'd tried to shut it out, knowing even more than she did just how _not allowed_ it was, this _thing,_ this…whatever it was between them, had kept him up at night more than once—as it had last night, which he'd disguised under coffee this morning—and had him pouring himself into this case with gusto in an effort to distract himself.

He hadn't asked what she'd wanted, but it was easy enough to piece together based on what she brought to work on occasion. It was also, by then, 1:30, and since they'd both start to feel tired within the hour, picked up a second round of coffee before returning. When he arrived back, she was reaching for his letter, so he left her sandwich and coffee with her and smiled as her eyes softened and she thanked him for reading her mind.

But when she thought about it, she stopped what she was doing. When he'd left, she'd tracked down a few possible matches for the type of blade, but there was only one way to confirm them. She had to pay a visit to Victor Whale in forensics before she could do much else. Before she went downstairs, she tore off part of the sandwich to have on the way, chugged a bit of the coffee, and headed out. The letter could wait.

* * *

><p>Whale's office, like all the others in forensics, was a couple of stories down, lit by old fluorescents and very much looking the part of a television set. When he wasn't in his office, she tapped on the door of the lab. He was wearing a mask, examining the body, and his gloves were a bit bloody, she could tell even from that distance. She looked down until he opened the door a few moments later, mask pulled down and gloves gone.<p>

"Detective Swan," he acknowledged, carefully positioning himself so her view of the body was obstructed. "I'm in the middle of the autopsy; is there something I can help you with?"

"Yes," she said a little uneasily. "It won't take long. I wanted to check something with the knife; is there any way I can have a look at it?"

"You can have it, actually," he replied. "I finished my tests on it this morning. Just make sure I get it back. Which reminds me, actually—I found something peculiar in the blood, both in the traces on the knife and in the body. They're in the report on my desk. I was going to leave it with Regina on my way out this morning, but you can take it now if you want."

"Can you tell me about it?"

"Sure, real quick," he answered. "There was some kind of poison in his blood. I haven't been able to identify it yet, but it was concentrated in his left arm. Some kind of long, dark scar."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "What could _that_ be from?"

"Beats me. Aside from the discolouration, it looked like it had healed, which is what's puzzling me. But it panned out from a vein, so maybe it was some kind of spider. At any rate, he may have been dying even before he was killed."

Emma paused a moment. "Keep me posted on that," she finished. He nodded before returning to the table. When she grabbed the report from his office and went back upstairs, she was suddenly a lot less hungry.

* * *

><p><em>Emma,<em>

_Before you read any further, I want you to know that I take this very seriously. I wanted to get the cartel bit out before we talked about this, or I may not have been able to._

_I want you to have dinner with me. There's something between us, and this morning confirmed that I need to see you again, not just as my partner. I don't want to risk being seen, so if you would, come to my apartment around 6:00 tonight. I promise to have you back by a decent hour._

_And yes, I know this isn't allowed. That's why I'm writing it this way—it's the least traceable thing I could think of. Incinerate this when you're through if you'd like. I don't expect a response, but I will be expecting you—please, Emma, just this once, do something reckless._

_G_

The letter burned a hole through her forehead as she stared at it on the train home.

She'd been about to read it when Graham had brought her lunch by, but after she got back from talking with Dr. Whale, she'd buried herself in the file he gave her and had forgotten about it until she was out the door. Graham had hesitated when he said goodbye that day, looking at her a little longer than usual, and that's when she'd remembered. When she read it on the train, she thanked every deity she could think of she hadn't read it in the office. Being even _more_ paralyzed for the rest of the day was the last thing she'd needed.

6:00 was less than an hour from then. It was also about the time Henry would be getting home from soccer, which left her a disconcertingly short amount of time to think this through. This was a _really_ bad idea, that much she knew, but it seemed so did Graham. Normally, two people coming to that kind of conclusion on their own would point to a firm _no. But this is Graham,_ she reasoned—and she trusted him. All the same, the concern she'd felt in her gut that morning had turned to full-on worry, and by the time she was unlocking her apartment, she felt a tension headache pulling at her temples and had to take a few Advil to stop it in its tracks.

"Henry?" She called, knowing he wasn't home yet. _Just to be sure._ She ran a hand over her face.

_He's expecting me,_ she rationalised. _He didn't really leave me a choice._ Yet she also knew he would forgive her if she didn't come. He knew her. But all the same, she didn't want to do that to him.

That and she wanted to distract herself. Every so often, the image of Liam's body under the examination light bore into her mind, and with it, the feeling of dread she'd had when she first found him. That on top of her worry and her nascent headache had her feeling more than a little sick. Graham lived near the theatre district, a good twenty minutes from her, so she'd have to move quickly—she blow-dried her hair to get the bump from her ponytail out and sent Henry a text before changing.

—_Hey, kiddo – I have to take care of some things for work tonight, so I'll be home late, but not too late. Shouldn't be past 8 or 8:30. I'm leaving some things out for dinner. Love you_

—_P.S. My turn to do the dishes_

She missed the 5:40 train, which meant it was ten after by the time she reached Graham's neighbourhood. It was another five minutes to his building from the stop. She swore at her choice of footwear, pulling her hair over one shoulder and pausing before she knocked at his door—

—Which opened before she could raise her hand. "Emma," he said simply, relief washing over his face. "I heard you coming up the stairs. Please, come in." The urgency was still there as he held the door for her—and though he knew better, he couldn't help but glance behind her as he closed the door to make sure she was alone. Luckily, her back was to him.

She turned. "What's this about, Graham?"

"I was going to ask you this morning, but I thought better of it." He ran a hand through his hair. "Hence, the letter. There's no use avoiding it now."

He stepped closer to her, placing a hand on her arm, staring intently into her eyes. "Emma, I'm so attracted to you it hurts. And I don't really care if you don't feel the same right now, because you could if you'd let yourself. I needed somewhere safe, with no pretences. Just to try. And I'm not going to burden you with this. I just needed to say it." He stepped back toward the kitchen, releasing her arm and smiling. "Want anything to drink?"

"I saw the Merlot on the counter," she replied, a bit shaky.

But he was right. He didn't burden her—he didn't expect anything, but he didn't hide it, either. He touched her freely, but he didn't cross any lines, and she found his happiness so contagious that she couldn't help but _enjoy_ herself as they shared the meal. She even complimented his remarkable cooking.

As the evening became night and they finished the wine, Emma stood to bring her plate to the counter, but Graham stopped her. "Let me take care of it," he said. "I know you need to be back soon."

"I told Henry no later than 8:30."

"Really soon, then," he said a little sadly. "I want to show you back, but he'll be there."

Emma nodded. "I can't tell him yet."

"I know."

As she stood to collect her things, he took her hands again. She looked at him.

"Emma, thank you," he said. "I want to kiss you, but I won't. Not until you say. You've been reckless enough for one day." He pulled her closer, a hand on her side and the other behind her head as he kissed her forehead. "Come back again Friday. We don't need to talk about it again unless you say so."

* * *

><p><em>Believe it or not, the first part of this chapter was actually about 5x more convoluted and incomprehensible than it is now when I originally wrote it. I was neck-deep in finance research for a book I was helping edit at the time and couldn't seem to separate work from play…it was painful, ha.<em>

_Things about to get weird in here. Hook returns next chapter. Hold on to your hats, cats_—_we're just getting started._

**_Terms:_**

_Forecasting: this is the same sense as weather forecasting, but for a business. Neal works for an investment firm - they'd basically be predicting their performance next quarter given their performance in the current one and in the past, etc.  
><em>

_Acquisition: the textbook definition is one company buying or getting another company in order to build on its strengths or weaknesses. I prefer to think of it as two amoeba: amoeba A glomps amoeba B and starts transfusing itself into amoeba B; B ends up with B and A inside, if it isn't entirely swallowed by A (which it often is, in which case A just gets bigger). Don't tell your Business professor I said that._

_Portfolio: a company's collection of assets, which can be financial products, capital (i.e. material stuff, like buildings), or services. Usually, though, it's used in the financial sense (i.e. my investment portfolio is my collection of stocks, bonds, etc)._

_The Exchange: The New York Stock Exchange._

_Rozerem: a semi-popular prescription sleep aid._

_Angel investor: an affluent individual who provides capital for a business start-up (or, in this case, saves one from falling apart)._

_Also, in plain English, Neal and Spencer are discussing an offer for Neal to be the "angel investor" in a sleep drug to make sure it continues to trial on schedule. At the same time, Neal, being a mostly intelligent human being, is wondering why Spencer himself didn't do so, especially when it seems so likely the drug will be successful. Neal decides to bring the offer to his superiors at Reul Ghorm anyway, and they all climb on board.  
><em>


	4. The Return

**AN: **So, I promised in chapter one that I was going to try not to have any really long author's notes mid-series. The thing is, I had a bit of a rough week last week. Not two hours after I posted the last chapter, I learned that one of my 14 classmates in high school—with whom I spent the better part of 9 hours a day, 5 days a week for four years in the IB and basically considered a brother—passed away on January 10th. Still don't know what happened. I'm just praying it wasn't suicide.

Not long after that, then, I had a reviewer let me know they've quit the story. I decided to re-do the author's note in the first chapter partly for that reason—because this story is a bit unusual, I feel it's fair to let you know what you're getting into before you start. So that's what the new note does. If anyone else wants to give me negative feedback, I honestly welcome it, same as positive.

Lastly, I'm updating a day early because of my day tomorrow. After taking my husband to the airport at 4 a.m., I have a bunch of meetings before lunch that start as soon as I get back. Being an adult is hard, guys. #grownuplife

If you pray, I'd appreciate your prayers for my friend's family. And maybe for me, too.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four<br>**_The return_

By the time Emma had made it home that evening, her thoughts were downright tumultuous. There was the file, which was still bothering her; on top of that, dinner had been perfect, and that was precisely the problem. Romantic gestures aside, it, _this_, was impossible without one or both of them seriously paying the price. She couldn't do that to Graham. And, if she was being honest, she couldn't do it to herself. Something like that would stay with her, and she had Henry to think about.

All the same, it had been nice to think about something other than work for once.

It shouldn't have surprised her that sleep was elusive that night. Slipping into her insomniac thought spiral was easy as indulging the worries building woodpeckers' tunnels in her mind, and once she slipped once it was nearly impossible to recover. It was just before midnight the first time she caught herself, just after two a.m. the second. That time, however, she was ready; before the insomnia struck, she pulled the blanket of black nothingness over the shutters of her mind and felt herself slip away.

When she awoke, the sun was blaring through the trees. She swore, levering herself up as soon as she realised—only to find that beneath her hands wasn't the cotton of her bed sheets but the sand of Neverland's shoreline.

"What the hell?!—"

"Thank God, you're back—"

"You!" She pushed herself away. "Why are _you_ here again, that doesn't make any sense—"

"Do you have any idea how long I've been looking for you?" He shouted. "Bloody hell, when you disappeared like that I thought I wouldn't get a chance to tell you again—"

"Why the fuck am I here—"

"I brought you here!" He shook his head as she pushed to her feet and ran his hand through his hair. "Well, you have to think of it, but in a manner of speaking—"

"Don't play games with me, buddy, you have no idea who you're dealing with—"

"Actually," he interrupted without pausing, the urgency buried under a sudden, teasing sarcasm—"that's the thing, love, I do. You see, I've lost something—"

"And _why_ do you think I can help you?"

"Because that's what I wished for." He stepped closer, and she paused.

"What…?"

He closed their distance further. "I told you last time, before you ran off—you can have whatever you want here." He raised his hook and pushed a lock of her hair back. "I wanted to know why my brother was dead."

She jerked away and stepped back. "I've never killed anyone, if that's what you're wondering." _And it's true. I deal with the aftermath._

When he didn't approach her again, she paused. He looked at her pointedly, asking the question before he spoke. "Then who are you?"

Emma narrowed her eyes. "You first."

"Well, alright then—my name's Killian Jones. My brother is Liam—"

"No. What the _hell?"_ She swore, loudly, interrupting him, wishing for something to hit. "You've got to be _kidding me—"_

"Actually I'm quite serious," he intoned, warning dripping through every word.

"No…" she repeated, looking at him. "…Killian, that's not possible. His case landed in my precinct yesterday, you _can't_ be—"

"—The officer working on his case," he finished. His eyes lit with realisation. "Of course." He paused a moment, thinking, taking it in. "Of course. I wished to know why my brother was dead, so, the officer working on his case. That's brilliant! What is your name?"

"Emma Swan."

"Well, Emma, I need you to do something for me."

"We're _going_ to find who did this, if that's what you're wondering—"

"—Don't disappear like that again," he finished.

"What?" She froze. "…I can't stay here, we'll never find—"

"—No," he interrupted, stepping toward her. "I mean, don't run away. Now that you know who I am," he shook his head disbelievingly. "I told you, I've been looking for you for _weeks._ You can tell me what's happening outside—"

"—_Weeks?_" She interjected. "Killian, it's been a few _hours._ I was here just last night."

"I _would_ get the short end of that stick," he grumbled, mostly to himself.

"And besides, this doesn't even make sense. This could be a fluke. It's not like recurring dreams are unheard of—"

"—Tell me how many recurring dreams you've had that plague you like memories." He left no room for discussion. "I don't know _why_ this is happening, but just trust it. My brother is _dead_. Give me at _least_ that courtesy."

She paused, took several deep breaths, and nodded. The events of the previous day swam back over her and threatened to overwhelm her. "Okay."

"Okay _what_?"

"Okay, I'll let you know what I find. If I ever come back here." She turned to look at him. "Is that what you want?"

An expression that almost looked like longing came over his features. She was struck by its resemblance to Graham's. "Evidently, yes."

And then she woke up.

* * *

><p>Emma was jarred awake by the sound of her alarm clock. It was the first time she'd slept through until 5:00 in months—she felt a shiver as the light, warm sand gave way to the cold of her corner loft, dark quiet of the sleeping city threatening to push her back into unconsciousness. She sat up, grunted, and reached for her running shoes. When she thought about the dream, though, her stomach swam.<p>

Killian's voice reverberated in her head throughout her entire run as she tried to make sense of it. That was precisely the problem—it _didn't_ make sense_,_ and no amount of rationalisation would make a dream pirate's claim to be the brother of her murder victim any less surreal. Even more alarming was that he was right, at least about the one verifiable claim he could make—the dream _did_ plague her like a memory, and she recalled him with such lucidity he could have been someone she'd seen every day of her life. _Minus the clothing,_ she thought, smirking at her own defensive sarcasm. _Not that mine was much better._

The first thing she did that morning upon early arrival to work was to see if he even existed. The whole thing could have very easily been a fluke, and that would have almost made her feel better but for the fact she'd encountered him _again,_ not only that but in the same place. One or the other happening again was normal. Encountering the same person in the same place twice was still just coincidence, but one that, like finding Liam had been in the first place, left her far more troubled than it should have.

"Of course he exists," Emma muttered to herself. Either he existed, or he was the subject of a very elaborate fraud scheme: Facebook, LinkedIn profile, corporate biography, expert testimony, a few papers, even a surprisingly sassy Twitter feed. She scrolled back up to the corporate page and paused.

"Huh." _So they worked together._ The page belonged to a firm called Roger & Stern, which, as its _About _page clarified, made up a third of the Voyager Group. She skimmed through the page—an international corporate consulting firm that specialised in economic forecasting, data engineering, and legal counsel. She wasn't exactly sure what that meant, but made a note on the file just in case.

_What does he do?_ She clicked back to the _Our People_ page, scrolling down until his startlingly blue eyes were staring out at her in an expression she would almost describe as menacing. She sat back, crossed her arms, and stared at it several moments, until Ruby's arm depositing her coffee on her desk snapped her out of her reverie.

"Who's that?" She asked.

"Hm? Oh, background," she answered before minimizing the window and going back to her report, reaching for her coffee. "More like a crazy suggestion of Graham's that might actually lead somewhere."

"Damn, I like my theory better."

"Do I want to know?" Ruby answered with a wink before heading off to her own station.

And at that point, she was stuck. The logical course of action would have been to call his office, perhaps search local news records to make sure he was even _alive_, but something troubled her. If he _was _alive, there was the minor problem of whether he'd know who she was. His being Liam's brother made calling him a reasonable move, but if he wasn't a reasonable suspect—which, given his residence in Ireland, she could safely assume he wasn't, barring a family grudge his tone toward Liam last night suggested didn't exist—then what?

She swallowed. No matter how much she tried to rationalise herself out of not needing to call him, the matter remained. Even worse, as a relative to the deceased, he was supposed to be one of the first people she contacted. In all likelihood someone else on the European side had beat her to it—as she picked up the phone, reminded herself for the second time that he might not even remember her, and dialled the international number, she prayed that was the case, as her having to be the one who broke the news of his brother's death to him was one more thing she didn't need.

—"_You've reached the desk of Killian Jones. I'm not available to take your call right now, but if you'll leave your name and number, I'll return your call as soon as I get the chance." _

_Get it together, Emma._

"Good afternoon, Mr. Jones," she began a little uncertainly. "My name is Detective Emma Swan of the New York Police Department, and I'm one of the officers handling your brother's domestic case. I need to talk with you, so if you could please give me a call back at this number…"

As she left the line for her desk phone, a deep sense of dread locked onto her stomach. What if he didn't know? What if something happened to him? What if he wasn't even in the country, and what if she wasn't even allowed to call him in the first place…? This case wasn't like any other she'd had before, and the game was different, so technical, and—

"Emma, are you alright?" Graham. She jumped in her seat. "You look like you've run over a dog."

"Graham," she sighed with relief, running a hand over her face. "No, it's…nothing." She turned to him. "I just got off the phone with Liam Jones' brother."

"What did he say?"

"He wasn't in," Emma answered. "I'm not sure whether to be relieved or worried. They worked together."

"I'm glad you checked that," he answered, sighing himself. "That could be something, but if it is, it's pushing the limits of our jurisdiction…"

"What would we even _do_ with information from a foreign financial firm?" She concurred, looking away again. "But that's not the problem. He wasn't there, and it hasn't been _that_ long—what if he didn't know—"

"—Emma, _don't_ take this on yourself." He stepped into her cubicle, meaning to reach for her but stopping himself. "If he doesn't, you haven't done anything wrong. Soon he'll thank you. And as for the other bit," he stepped back again, running a hand through his hair. "I figure that if he'd been here on an H-1B, then they have to have an American subsidiary, or something like it. You know, the one place a financial data group would have a branch like that would be here in the city—in fact, may I?" He gestured at her computer, and she rolled her chair back, intentionally directing her focus away from his proximity while he typed something into a search engine.

"I thought so," he said after a moment, turning to face her. "They have an office on Cortlandt. Let's find out if this is in our jurisdiction, and if it is, we'll go talk to them this afternoon. We'll figure this out." The look he gave her was meant to reassure her, so she nodded.

"Yeah, okay. I think I need to do some research on what these two actually _do_ for a living before we go try and talk to them."

"Well, I'll see you next week, then," Graham laughed a bit as he left. She rolled her eyes.

* * *

><p>The man they were to see at the Cortlandt office was a lawyer named Mr. Gold. Evidently he was a bit old-fashioned, as not only had the web site turned up nothing about him, it didn't have a page for the legal arm of the Americas branch at all. They were walking blind, and as Emma and Graham were shown into the lobby (it was locked from outside), they found it empty but for an older man with a cane. He stood serenely, resting both hands on it.<p>

"You must be our friends from the precinct," he said as he walked toward them. Emma noticed he walked with a limp. "Come in, we'll go up to my office."

His tone was flat, guarded, not unfriendly, but quite evidently not trusting, either. He'd looked at them like they were suspicious—as though he, not they, represented the law.

"Why the personal welcome?" Graham asked his back as they neared the elevator. Gold turned, levelled a _look _at him.

"Well, as you may be aware, one of our own was murdered only a couple of days ago. It's merely a precaution." That ambiguous tone again. As the elevator dinged its arrival, Emma narrowed her eyes.

"We're on your side, Mr. Gold," she warned.

He responded immediately, "As of yet we're not sure there are sides to be _had,_ detective."

She flinched. That was unexpected. But he was right—technically speaking, he hadn't yet cleared _himself_ of suspicion, either. His office was on one of the upper floors, which didn't surprise her. What _did_ was the gold lettering on the curved centre wall reading _Miller & Gold Associates,_ and the reminder that this was serious enough to get one of the partners involved invoked the sense of dread she'd been feeling now and then since finding the body.

Graham shut the door behind them.

"Liam Jones was one of our best data engineers," Gold began as he took a seat. "And from what I understand, he'd picked up on an unusual amount of perfect predictions in front of major market disturbances that traced back to a single source."

"Insider trading," Graham interjected. "No one's that lucky."

"Exactly," he paused.

"Unfortunately," he pulled his focus back to Graham after lingering a moment more on Emma, "he died before we could identify who was responsible. From the standpoint of the investigation, it's a minor setback. There are others just as good as Jones who will finish it. But of course, this isn't about the investigation." The smile on half his mouth held no humour or mirth.

Emma nodded, her gaze at the table before raising her eyes to Gold's. "There are other ways to stop a search."

Graham paused, thinking a moment. "They were trying to send a message." After another moment, he concurred with Gold: "This might be bigger than the investigation."

"That's where I was thinking you could help me," Gold replied. Graham nodded.

"If we can establish that whoever killed Liam also wanted to bring your firm down?" Emma asked.

"That, or even just who killed Liam. It would give you your motive."

Emma narrowed her eyes again. _Something's off. We can't do this. If we found who killed Liam and told Gold, Gold might go after—_

"Now, Mr. Humbert, for the matter we discussed earlier—" Her eyes snapped back open and she spun her head toward Graham so fast her neck cricked.

"Yes, I have it." She saw him reach into his briefcase. He pulled out the case file and opened to the section on the Brooklyn pawn shop. "I'll need to use your photocopier, if you don't mind."

"Graham, you can't—"

"Yes, right this way," Gold continued. He stepped around her chair and held the door; they both ignored her.

* * *

><p>"<em>Captain, I need to talk to you."<em>

"_I know you do," Regina replied a little solemnly, looking up from her work. "Detective, I know about you and Emma."_

_Graham sighed and ran a hand through his hair, studying the red-streaked maps on her wall a moment before turning to her. "What's going to happen?"_

"_I was going to ask you the same thing," she replied. "I know what's been going on between you two. And I know it's not serious yet, but Graham, do you understand what you're doing?"_

"_Yes, and I haven't talked with her about it, but I think…" he paused for breath before continuing. "…I think I need to go back to Interpol."_

"_I think that's a good idea." _

_She wasn't angry, but before he could ask why she was doing this, she continued. "If it were Robin, and we were in this position…" she paused a moment, nodded. "I think I'd do the same. You're our best detective, Graham. I hate to lose you. But losing _two_ of our best would be worse, and you know that's what would happen if the Assistant Chief were to find out about this."_

"_You're right." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll connect with them and see if I can get a transfer back. But Captain, would you do something for me?"_

_He looked pained. Her face softened. "Of course."_

"_Make sure she gets a good partner."_

_She smiled a bit, sadly. "Only the best." He'd turned to leave, but she continued. "And Graham—" he turned back. "I would suggest waiting after the transfer to keep out any suspicion. Good luck."_

_As the door clicked shut, Regina took the small, framed photo on her desk in her hands. It was taken on their first anniversary—Robin, herself, and his son, her adopted boy, Roland. They were both looking at him, swinging the four-year-old between their hands. His contagious smile beamed at the camera and reached her eyes before she set it down again._

* * *

><p><em>I'd be lying to you all (all 10 of you) if I said negative reviews don't bother me. Of course they do—writing is hard, and it's easy to forget that when you're reading. I know I do. All the same, I do appreciate negative reviews, because at least the person <em>told_ me they didn't like the story. And this one? Good gracious. I know it's not everyone's cup of tea. It's a convoluted mess right now, and it's going to get worse before it gets better. _

_My problem, I think, is that I like to make people think. It's what I do. And this is a story about thinking—about thinking that there's never only one way things could have gone. I want to entertain you, but I also want to royally piss you off and make you go WHAT IN THE WORLD and maybe smile at your computer later on in the story and ultimately, maybe, feel just a little bit satisfied that you read the whole thing and didn't give up on me._

_So maybe I'm also asking you to have a little faith in me? Up to you._

_Good, bad, ugly, I want to hear it ALL. You know what to do. x_

**_Terms:_**

_Partner: law firms are often called things like "Potter, Granger & Weasley LLP" - the partners in this firm are Potter, Granger, and Weasley, any they're the ones who technically "own" the firm.  
><em>

_Insider trading:__ using information that's only available to your clique of traders to buy & sell on the stock exchange. A lot of basic info about stock performance is supposed to be publicly available - insider trading is the stock exchange equivalent of blood doping.  
><em>


	5. The Discovery

**AN: **Warning straight up: no Hook this chapter. (Aw.)

Another warning straight up: there is a substantial amount of Gremma this chapter.

Maybe that's not a warning. Up to the beholder, I guess?

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five<br>**_The discovery_

The Thursday evening he told her he was going back to Interpol, Emma went straight to Mary Margaret's after work without even texting to let her former roommate know she was coming.

Mary Margaret answered the door with her arms full of baby. "Emma," she observed, looking surprised but not upset.

"Can I hold him?"

"Please, my arms are about to fall off." She handed Emma the swaddled bundle. "He was crying and crying earlier, and he didn't sleep until I held him for a while, but if I put him down he wakes right up again." She turned to her friend. "Is everything alright?"

"Is David here?"

"No, he's still at work."

Emma looked at the sleeping baby, then her friend. "Graham's going back to Interpol and didn't tell me."

"Oh, Emma."

"And that's not even the best part." She paused, lowering her voice almost to a whisper. "Two days ago, he asked me to dinner."

Mary Margaret gasped. "But, that's _completely_ against protoco—"

"I know! And so does he!" She winced. "He left a letter. Hand-written, in my file, that said he knew it was wrong but '_do something reckless.'_ So he asked me to dinner that night._"_ She started pacing a bit, rocking the baby as she did, while Mary Margaret sat on the arm of the sofa.

"Did you go?"

"Yes!" She adjusted the blanket over his head. "Yes, I did something stupid and irresponsible. I don't know why I did it. But I know he told me, 'Emma, I'm so attracted to you it hurts.' And he said he wanted to kiss me."

"But he didn't."

"No, he said it had to be my choice." She sighed, and Mary Margaret held out her arms to take the baby again. Once she did, Emma ran a hand through her hair.

"Well," Mary Margaret began, "I guess that explains why he left the department. If he knew you couldn't be together while he was there, he wanted to give you his best shot…?"

"That's what I can't figure out." She leaned against the chair opposite the sofa. "We're in the middle of a massive case, and he tells me this _now._ I don't know whether to be flattered or hurt."

Mary Margaret didn't respond immediately. Emma watched her friend's brow furrow in concentration.

"Did you enjoy your time the other day?" She asked after a few moments.

"More than I thought I would," Emma responded immediately. She didn't have to think about that. "It's so _easy_ to be around him."

"Do you feel the same way at all toward him?"

"I don't know," she sighed, recalling his words from that night. "I think I could if I let myself."

"You don't want to let yourself, do you?" Mary Margaret responded, a small, sad smile playing at her lips.

"I don't know how to," Emma answered after a moment. "He's been my partner for so long, and this has all happened really fast. I can't just _throw_ myself into this."

There was more Mary Margaret wanted to say, she could tell—_can't, or won't? _She saw the unspoken question in her friend's eyes. But it was so easy for her to ask that. Her own relationship with David had been, in many ways, just as unlikely: he'd come to her rescue when she'd had a flat tire on the way back from an away football game with their rival school. David had been on his way home when he passed her. His team had just won, but even though her car proudly displayed enemy colours, he'd felt benevolent. And from there it was history, the love between those two as close to happily ever after as it got this side of a fairy tale.

"I think you should think about it," Mary Margaret offered. "His leaving the department is evidence of what he's willing to give up to be with you."

"No pressure," Emma quipped. Mary Margaret smiled.

"And you don't have to make a decision today. Don't push him away, though. I think you owe it to yourself to try."

"But that's the thing. There's still part of me that's hurt that he didn't tell me any of this until he'd already made a decision. I dunno, isn't trust supposed to be important?"

"Crucial," Mary Margaret concurred. When Emma looked at her again, she could see she was putting her own true love bias aside and thinking it through before she spoke again. "I really don't like that he didn't talk to you first. But if there's anyone who can figure out why, Emma, it's you. You can do this."

"You make it sound like another case," Emma grumbled.

* * *

><p>It was Friday morning before she heard back from Neal. He called as soon as she got into work—when she heard her desk line ringing after noticing a missed call from him on her cell, she set Ruby's coffee on her still-vacant desk and ran the rest of the way to her own.<p>

"This is Detective Swan," she answered.

"Emma, it's Neal. Sorry I haven't called you back until now, it's been crazy the last couple of days. You were asking before about the Voyager Group?"

"Yeah, a lead we've been following," she said cryptically. "Do you know anything about them?"

He hesitated. "Can we meet in person to talk about it?"

"Neal…" she paused.

"It's really something I need to tell you where we won't be recorded," he continued only slightly less cryptically than she had.

She was the one who hesitated, then. "Meet me at the bookstore on Essex in half an hour," she answered, and hung up. He'd know the one—Henry went there all the time.

As she was leaving again, Graham was on his way in.

"Emma," he acknowledged, laying a hand on her arm. "Where are you going?"

"Meeting someone about the case," she replied. "We'll talk about this later. This isn't the time."

"You'll still come tonight?"

She sighed, a tentative affirmation lacing itself through her tone. "We need to talk about this at some point. Later. I need to go." When he released her, something like relief came over him briefly, but she didn't see.

* * *

><p>Neal beat her there. "I was going to buy you coffee, but…" Emma smiled a bit, holding up her half-finished drink from that morning.<p>

"I appreciate it. I'll get us a table."

When he joined her, she had a tape recorder on the table. Neal eyed it pointedly.

"It's for my own use. I won't even put it on my personal computer."

"Can I get that in writing?" Neal joked, but it fell flat. "Okay, well. Voyager."

The recorder was already running. "What do you know about them?"

"Can we start with how you're connected to them?"

"I can't say very much about that, but the man whose murder I'm investigating used to work for them. Before."

"You're on the Liam Jones case?"

"How did you—?"

"The _New York Times,_" Neal answered with a slight chuckle before lowering his voice. "Before that, I found out from my father."

"Your father?"

"He works for Voyager," Neal answered. Emma raised a brow. "Well, kind of. It's a subsidiary, Miller & Gold. He's an attorney."

And then it clicked. Emma's eyes shot open. "Neal…is your father the 'Gold' part of Miller & Gold?"

Neal ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, that's him."

She wanted to hit her head on the table for not putting the pieces together earlier. Neal picked up on it. "…Do you…know him?"

"Fuck…"

"_That's_ a yes…what did he—he's not a suspect, is he?"

She ran a hand over her eyes, pausing. "I don't know. I don't think so. We can't say yes or no yet."

Another wave of connections came to her then, promising no less relief. She paused for several moments, heavily weighing the potential consequences of what she was about to say before deciding to take the plunge.

_He's already done the same thing._

"My partner gave him part of our case file before we left his office on Wednesday." She swept her hands over her hair, fighting the urge to pull it out.

"And my father has confidential police evidence that can get you both fired." Emma nodded, tempted to add that Graham was leaving. She decided to keep her mouth shut. "Do you know why he has it?"

"It sounded like Graham made some kind of arrangement with him before we arrived."

Neal laughed. "Typical. My father and his deals. That was probably the condition of the meeting."

"That's so illegal it's ridiculous. It can get _him_ fired, even if he _is_ a partner."

"Do you know what part of the file he has?"

"Yeah, something about a pawn shop in Brooklyn owned by a guy named William Smee. The knife that killed Liam was stolen from there." She was divulging too much, but at this point, with what he already knew, it didn't matter.

And at that point, Neal was laughing. Silently, but she saw his shoulders shake—when she noticed, he shook his head in apology.

"Sorry. This is just too ridiculous. Smee has been on my father's shit list for _years_, ever since he swindled him out of a family heirloom. It was a set of music pipes, about this big," he held his hands about six inches apart. "He got it back, but by paying for it, and I actually think I remember him saying 'He'll pay me back the rest of his life' or something just as bad. In his spare time, he manages a hedge fund."

Emma nearly spat her drink.

"So, were you just wanting to know about Voyager, or should I tell you some about Excalibur as well?"

"I'm guessing that's the hedge fund?"

"The only thing better would have been to call it the Holy Grail." Neal sighed. "Rare objects collector, right? It's pretty speculative, as far as they go. Excalibur deals in a lot of risky shit: Arctic oil drilling, plutonium batteries, cold fusion. I can't tell you where they keep it all, but I do know my father's been waiting for them to do something illegal for _years._"

"No luck, I'm guessing?"

Neal shook his head. "Nada." Neal paused a moment. "It's groups like Voyager that keep an eye on the Excaliburs of the world, kind of like the sheriffs in the Old West. A lot of people in the business hate them. My father's involvement in Voyager is that for reasons I'm still not sure about, he teamed up with a lawyer he hates named Cora Miller to make Miller & Gold the legal arm of Voyager. Since Voyager is based in the UK, a lot of what they do is in Europe, but they both have offices in both places. Normally Cora focuses on the US side while my father deals with Europe.

"And on that note, my father's Achilles' heel, should you ever need to know this," he looked at the tape recorder, then Emma, "is that he can't practice in the US. It kills him. All he can do is advise. Why are you writing this down—isn't that what that's for?"

Emma stopped the notes she'd been furiously scribbling after a couple of seconds and looked up. "It's quicker to access than the tape. I'll need to tell my partner about this."

"Right," Neal sat back. "I almost forgot this was an investigation. On that note, I guess I should add that in the event my father's done anything stupid, I'll still cooperate. I don't want you to take the fall for something he did."

She finished writing, nodded, and looked up. "Thanks, Neal. This helps a lot."

"Sure," he finished, standing up. "I need to get going before the floor opens, but Emma," he reached out for a hug, which she accepted. "It's good to see you."

"You too. My best to Tamara."

"Tell Henry his dad says 'Hey,'" he waved, and left.

The rest of the morning was spent digging up everything she could on Smee. With his name connected to Excalibur as opposed to the pawn shop, a whole new set of search results turned up—surprisingly few, however, connected the two together, she noted with a laugh upon seeing two articles use the same photo of him.

She didn't see much of Graham at all that afternoon, however. At one point she'd seen him leaving Regina's office looking worse for the wear, but she'd turned back to her work before she could think about it. At another, she'd heard him on the phone with Interpol, but he was speaking French, so she couldn't tell what he was talking about.

_Better get used to it,_ she thought. She'd worked without a partner before; in her division, it was fairly common to find both solo detectives and pair teams, and Graham had been her first partner in the three years she'd been at the precinct. Even though this was more up his alley than hers, she now had new information from Neal on top of everything she'd already found. _I'll be fine._

* * *

><p>By the time she got off work that day, she'd nearly forgotten about her plans with Graham that evening. She had half a mind to cancel. The prospect was tempting. Henry had an away game, though, so she'd be alone until late unless she conjured something else to do.<p>

But there weren't many options. Mary Margaret and David had a date, and Ruby liked to go out, which wasn't really her thing. She could watch a movie—_and fall asleep and dream of Neverland,_ she thought bitterly before deciding to just buck up and go.

"I don't know why I'm here," she told Graham when she arrived fifteen minutes late.

"I wondered if you would," he answered. Behind him, something that smelled way too good for the situation was sizzling on the stove. "I haven't finished the food yet; would you be able to help?"

It was a small relief that he'd expected her to be late. "I'll burn your kitchen down," she warned with a small smile. The words came out halfway a threat.

"I won't let you," he replied immediately, a threat of his own.

It was infuriatingly difficult to stay mad at him. Righteous anger or not, the need to appear useful was deeply ingrained in her psyche. She went to work immediately; he instructed her gently on what to do with the sprouts, browning them slightly on each side, coming up behind her to take the skillet off the heat when they were ready. While they never touched, it was almost unnerving to Emma that the banter between them suggested nothing of the magnitude of the changes that had happened since Tuesday. As he went to open the wine, she returned to the stove, stirring the sauce for the meat one more time before removing it from the heat.

When she turned around, she nearly dropped the pan. She felt the weight of his stare like an enormous wave. It made her shiver. "Careful," he'd said, smiling a bit, but not taking his eyes off her.

It didn't help. She made a sound of acknowledgement but felt unsteady as she made her way to the table and set the pan on a hot plate. A few moments later, he joined her. The moment dissolved slowly between them. Emma looked at her plate, the kitchen, his living room, anything to avoid his eyes.

This time, upon learning that Henry wouldn't be home until late, Graham let her help clean up once they were done. They still didn't touch. Both the matter of his leaving the department and the equally pleasant problem of his divulgence to Mr. Gold had been carefully avoided, and neither wanted to speak first. _The second is easier_, Emma thought. The weight of both topics was growing heavier in the silence while they did the dishes, so she started there.

"Graham, I need you to tell me." She saw him brace at first, then relax a bit. "Not why you're leaving. We do need to talk about that. But I spoke with an…old friend today," she hesitated a bit, there, "who, as it turns out, is Mr. Gold's son." _Which makes Gold Henry's grandfather. _She shuddered at the thought. "You gave Gold classified evidence?"

"Condition of the meeting," Graham replied after a moment, confirming her and Neal's suspicions. Emma nodded, but he wasn't done. "I realise in retrospect how dangerous that was. It could jeopardise us both, especially you, which is why," he reached for the towel hanging by Emma's face, "I'm staying on the case at Interpol, but in a different capacity. I've always done fraud, but now I'll be in intelligence, which provides a bit more flexibility. I've even been approved to take this to Europe if need be. I'll still be with you."

"Graham…"

He stopped what he was doing and turned to her.

"Emma, I need you to try to understand." He closed part of the gap between them, gripping the towel he was still holding so hard his knuckles were white. "I'm not leaving to get away from you, and I'm not leaving because I got carried away with excitement and gave classified information away either. I'm leaving because I want a chance with you." She inhaled sharply, but he wasn't done. "I can't have it the way we've been, and _yes,_ I would give seeing you every day for a chance to have it."

He tossed the cloth aside, the restraint he'd employed not to touch her all evening along with it. With one hand he held her hip, the other, the side of her head, threading his fingers through her hair. Emma froze, her heart racing, nodding very slightly both her understanding and acceptance. She searched his eyes and found a confusion of frustration, restraint, longing…and something else she couldn't identify.

But before she could think—before she could breathe—his lips were crashing down on hers.

* * *

><p>She didn't sleep that night. Graham had apologised for the kiss—he'd taken her nod as a yes, hadn't meant to offend her or press her. She shook her head. That wasn't it.<p>

"So it was a yes?" he'd said.

"I don't know yet," she'd replied. It was still too early to know. She ran a hand over her face, speaking through her fingers. "I need time to think about this, Graham. It's a lot."

In exchange, she'd let him accompany her home. It was only a bit after eight by the time they'd left—since his game was in New Jersey, Henry probably wouldn't be back until at least an hour from then. She invited him in, but he'd refused.

"I might not leave," he'd said.

He did, however, ask if he could kiss her again. That time she nodded. That time, when he kissed her, it was slow, almost languid, like they had all the time in the world.

"Goodnight, Emma," he'd said eventually.

Hence her current predicament. She laid on her back with the covers half-folded, staring up at the ceiling made blue-black by the lights outside. Henry was quiet when he came home. When she heard him open his door, she looked to the space below her own and watched the gold beam of light beneath it be extinguished.

For once, she _wanted_ to go back to Neverland. When she turned on her side and closed her eyes, she willed herself into unconsciousness and pictured its sand. She imagined the feeling of flying she'd felt the first day; she even thought of Killian. But behind that, all she could think of was the lingering feel of Graham's kiss.

* * *

><p><em>I read a buuuuunch of Gremma to get the old wheels turnin' as I was revising this chapter. Romance used to be pretty much all I wrote but it's been a while. Did it work? <em>

_It's interesting, I noticed in my reading that a lot of Gremma fans don't like Killian, but on the other hand, most Captain Swan stories don't really acknowledge Graham one way or the other…me, I like both of them, and the idea of both Graham and Killian being present in Emma's life at the same time is intriguing. That's part of why I wrote this story in the first place. :) Conflict and villains, those are my things. _

_(What does THAT say about me? Ha.)_

_I am trying to be fair, though, so get ready for a lot of Killian next week. See you then._

**_Terms:_**

_Hedge fund: the result of a professional management firm organising an investment vehicle as a business that pools capital from a number of investors and investing in securities (stocks/bonds/etc) and other money-making things. Known for having exorbitantly high "pay to play" fees, these are the financial equivalents of yacht clubs. They're controversial because they aren't really regulated by the government the way banks and other "money firms" are.  
><em>

_Speculation (business): When you buy risky investments that might have a possibility of earning large profits but also pose a higher-than-average possibility of loss._

_Risk (y business): the possibility of inadequate profit or even loss due to factors that can't always be predicted (i.e. changing tastes, strikes, etc). Also a 1983 film with Tom Cruise._


	6. The Crisis

**A/N:** Scenes in italics are flashbacks. Just fyi.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six<br>**_The crisis_

"_Trouble in paradise, Mr. Humbert?" Gold asked Graham once they'd left the office._

_Graham closed the door to the copy room before he replied. "In a manner of speaking." He opened the binder rings and removed the pages, laying them face-up in the tray. Gold was silent, waiting for him to elaborate._

_The detective complied. "We didn't talk about this," he continued once he'd started the machine, a wave of his hand indicating the file. "I couldn't tell her. She wouldn't have agreed. She's out of her league with this. She still hasn't put the pieces together."_

"_Could just be lack of practice, detective." The wink in Gold's eye went unexpressed. "You've been her partner for what, eight months, now? You've seen her work. You of anyone would know her potential."_

"_Potential, yes, but she has her comfort zones. This case is a different world to her. That's why she's stuck. She needs help. I intend to push her."_

"_And how do you intend to do that?"_

"_A number of ways. For one, by leaving the department." Graham grinned at the lawyer's quirked brow. "Beginning next week, she'll be handling this case alone. And before you question my telling you this, you'd need to know that anyway in case you require future contact with her."_

_The older man was now openly amused. "Oh? Anything else I may need to know?" _

"_Yes, there is." Graham turned, silently relieved he hadn't asked a question he could have asked, and took the finished sheets off the printer, handing them to Gold before putting the originals back where they belonged. He met the man's eyes. "If I'm not mistaken, you're her son's grandfather."_

_Gold's genuine surprise was the last thing he noted before turning to the door, carefully wiping the smile from his features before he stepped into the hallway._

* * *

><p>Sleep never came. She was never fully aware of slipping into the half-sleep that characterised her insomnia, her mind whirring with the technicalities of the case and Graham leaving and everything Neal had told her that day. When she got up at 2:58 to go to the bathroom, she knew she hadn't slept.<p>

She stared at her reflection in the mirror. If she went back there and _did_ fall asleep, it was Saturday, so she probably wouldn't be up until after Henry. Instead, she splashed cold water on her face and went back to her room, rooting in her briefcase for the tape recorder. The notes she'd managed to take when she'd met with Neal were pretty sparse; she figured she'd stay awake by supplementing them. _I'll thank myself for this later._

Emma took a seat at the counter, flipping the device's switch to 'play' and putting her earphones in so she wouldn't wake Henry. She fast-forwarded through the first part of their conversation, picking up where she explained which part of the file Graham had given Gold, and began writing. It wasn't long, however, before her letters began to slant, the battle to keep her eyes open ever fiercer. And before Neal could explain his father's Achilles' heel, Killian was waiting for her on the shores of Neverland.

She blinked at the sunlight.

"I thought you might be back soon," he began, turning to face her. "Just a couple of days longer than the last time."

"Wow, you're actually _right_." The sarcasm dripped off her words as she brushed sand off her jeans, starting to walk toward him. He smirked.

"Well, if you _want _to be technical, it's still been a number of weeks."

"I might take your word on that," she finished to herself, bitterly. She stopped in the shade, considering her state.

It was with mild astonishment that she noted that even now, amidst everything that had happened over the last few days, her preoccupations in the outside world felt like they belonged to someone else. It was as though someone had been telling her about what _they_ were dealing with as opposed to it being her own life. And it had been _way_ too long. In this dream world, without the heavy context and constant pressures around her from all sides, the case seemed like a dream. It hadn't even been a week, really, since she'd come across Liam's body, and all of this was happening so fast she barely had time to ask questions. Hell, she barely had time to think at _all_—this was her first case of this magnitude, and was she even on the right track…? The business world was as foreign to her as another language. And at that, she nearly laughed, having learned only yesterday that her partner was multilingual.

_What else don't I know about him?_

Even in this world, though, thinking of Graham made her stomach twist. There was just too _much_ to think about with him—any one of the things he'd done that week would have been more than enough to keep her up at night. But of course, they'd come all at once. He'd betrayed her trust, giving away classified evidence without even _asking_ if it was a bad idea; he'd betrayed their friendship, walking out on their partnership, again, without talking to her. And all of it because he was in love with her. _That_ was the kicker. It had supposedly been in the euphoria of the case that he'd slipped with regard to the evidence, but that hadn't seemed right. Like there was _still_ something he wasn't telling her.

It wouldn't have been a surprise, really. Not after everything else he'd done. The more she thought about it, the more used she began to feel. And yet, there was the matter of how he was when they were at his apartment, when their walls were down. She couldn't even _think_ about being angry with him then, not when he was laying himself so bare.

Still, she couldn't seem to do the same, couldn't answer when he asked if he could kiss her—

"Sounds like it's been rough. What have you found?"

She started to attention at the sound of Killian's voice, quickly gathering her thoughts before answering.

"A lot of things that don't make sense." After a moment, she started pacing, counting them off on her fingers: "Murder weapon is stolen from a pawn shop owned by a guy who manages a hedge fund. Victim works for a firm whose top attorney has a grudge against the guy who owns the pawn shop. Nothing connects to anything else relevant, it's all just pieces. And now, my partner is _leaving_, so I have to figure all this shit out on my own." She ran a hand through her hair, stopping. "I'm sorry. I know your brother just died. This is all just crazy."

"I know. I wish I could help."

She looked at him sideways. "Can't you?"

"I'm afraid this arrangement of ours is a bit one-sided," he answered, rising to his feet as well. "Time is different for me, here. A couple of days for you are several weeks for me. I've had a lot of time to think, and no matter what I do," he rapped his hook on an extended branch of the tree trunk he'd been sitting on, "I can't recall anything specific, only that he's dead. That's why I thought you could help."

"That doesn't make sense," she replied. "I have my memories on both sides. It's like you said before: I remember our conversations like they really happen. I remember everything. And I know you really exist—my partner can vouch for me, I left you a fucking _voicemail_ just a couple days ago."

"I take it I haven't replied?"

"I hadn't thought about it again until now." She laughed once, bitterly. "You know, it's funny. I was freaking out to Graham after I left it, like I'd done something I shouldn't or you didn't know or something. That feels like it was _weeks_ ago. I'm sorry I can't tell you more." She sighed.

His laugh held a bit more humour than hers as he came toward her. "I think the error is mine, if I haven't called you back yet. Circumstances aside, it's bad form to keep a lady waiting."

"Believe me, this lady understands plenty," she replied, looking down.

A collection of questions she knew he couldn't answer was quickly gathering in her mind. How did he get here? What _was_ Neverland, and why was it affecting them differently? How was it they were always able to find each other? And, for that matter, why did she always land in the same place?

Before they gathered too much more steam, she let one slip out.

"Did something happen to you that makes time different for you here?"

"Wish I could tell you, love," he said with a half-smile.

His voice came sounded nearer to her when he spoke that time, and as she realised it, she nearly jumped out of her skin. She hadn't even noticed him standing that close. He lifted her chin with his hook, enough to meet her eyes, before she flinched at its proximity and stepped back. His eyes were so blue she felt cold when she looked at them. "Careful with that," she said, weaker than she wanted to.

He smiled in response. After a few moments, he came up to her again, this time to her side, his hand safely on her upper back, and added:

"Well, if that's all that can be done on _that_ unpleasant matter for the time being, I want to show you something." He started walking them into the jungle.

"I could just leave if we're done."

"You could, but you haven't yet. So, while you're still here?" She rolled her eyes. He dropped his hand.

She didn't entirely trust him, but he wasn't _unpleasant _company. In fact, the farther they walked, Killian clearing the foliage aside with his hook, the more she noticed that despite the circumstances, and the apparent distance the island seemed to place between her and her real-world problems, being around him felt positively _light._ Graham's presence, though comfortable, had a weightiness about it, especially now that there were feelings involved. All this time, she'd thought that was something they had in common.

Eventually, though, as the dreamy lightness settled into her, she remembered the first time she'd been here, the feeling of bounding off the trees as though she'd been flying. She watched her travelling companion's advancing back a moment before a sly grin flashed across her features. She held back twenty feet, thirty, Killian absorbed in telling her of one of his discoveries about the island, when she ran, leapt, and flew over him, landing in a streak of red several paces in front and barely managing enough self-control to keep from doing it again.

"I'd wondered how much further into the jungle we'd go before you'd try that." He smirked.

"Can't do that at home," she quipped, smiling, a little out of breath. "Where is it we're going?"

"I want to find out if something is true," he answered ambiguously. The euphoria of flying still buzzing inside her, she didn't press. She'd know if something was wrong. She always did.

Eventually, the jungle began to thin. The soil became rockier. She wasn't sure how long they'd been walking—it could have been hours, but it was hard to tell without a clear view of the sun. In front of them was a formidable wall of rock. When he began to climb it, though, she did press.

"Where are we going?" she asked again. He didn't look back at her, concentrated as he was on finding both footholds and places to put his hook. But he climbed adeptly.

"I have a theory, and I want to see if it's true," he answered, going silent again and pressing on until he reached a point where the boulder plateaued. Emma followed him up, wondering briefly why they couldn't just _fly_ up, taking his hand when he offered it. "I do want to help you with your search, but that's a bit difficult as long as I don't have my memories. There's a legend here of a healing spring. Up there." He pointed to the summit of a mountain that had been obscured thus far by trees and clouds. "It may not work, but it's the best I've got."

The path up was a bit tricky, and their conversation ebbed into companionable but focused silence as they slipped around hairpin turns and switchbacks. At one point she'd needed to grab hold of a vine that snaked its way along the rocks, her head spinning with vertigo, but as though he could sense her reaching for it, he spun around and grabbed her hand away.

"Do _not_ touch that," he warned, fixing her with a steely glare a moment before he turned back around, released her hand, and continued walking.

"Killian, my head is spinning. If you don't want me to _fall off the mountain_…"

He turned around halfway again, smirking this time. "If you need to grab onto something, you can always grab onto me." Emma glared. "But really, unless you're keen on being poisoned, I'd advise the latter course."

At that, she shut up. She felt herself pale but made herself keep walking. A couple of times, she slipped a bit and actually _did_ have to grab him; the first time, it was just his shoulder, but the second was more substantial and she nearly lost her footing before taking hold of the curve of his hook.

When he pulled her back, he didn't skip a beat. He tugged her into him, securing his arm around her back before he half-asked, almost casually, "Are you alright?"

She wanted to smack him. That damn _smug_ expression again. His blue gaze was fierce, just a little predatory, and gave her chills. "You could have cut through my hand."

"I _could_ have let you fall, if you want to be technical."

"What is _with_ this thing? And could you let me go?!"

He did, smirking, but he released her slowly. "Walk in front of me," he said before they started moving again. "That way I'll catch you more easily if you fall."

She practically _felt_ his stare on her behind. She glared daggers at the path in front of her because it was too narrow and treacherous to turn and direct them at him.

Fortunately, at least for Emma, they reached a point not long after in which the path widened again, turning into a full trail that cut through the rocks as the peak began to level out beneath them. The bright blue of the sky at the summit belied the peril of the journey there, but what they found was merely a large concentration of the vine he'd told her not to touch at a point just before the mountain's true summit. The path disappeared into it.

"Well? What are we looking for?"

Killian looked intently at the vines. "It must be through there," he decided. She followed his gaze a moment; when she looked back at him, he had a sword in his hand and was walking toward it.

"Killian—"

But he didn't hear her. The vines made a tearing sound when he cut them, like they were resisting the blade. It took a few moments before he cleared a path large enough to walk through. She saw them slowly ooze a dark purple fluid onto the rocky path, making a point to avoid it as she followed Killian into a scene that could only have been from a dream.

The waterfall before them was easily twenty feet high. Without a source, it seemed to emerge from the mountain itself before collecting in a small pool at their feet. Killian produced a flask from somewhere in his jacket and filled it before bringing it to his lips. Then he froze again, as though in thought. When he looked back at her, his eyes were wide.

"Emma," he said quietly.

"Killian?"

"I remember now." He stood and came over to her. "I remember everything. Emma, my brother—"

And the next thing she felt was the cool of her countertop on the side of her face.

* * *

><p>The first thing she did at work on Monday was check her voicemail. It was six hours later in Ireland, meaning their workday was well underway and if he'd come to work that day, he'd have heard her message. Nothing. She watched for his number throughout the day, even after he would have gone home—still nothing. Tuesday morning was more of the same. On Wednesday, she hadn't even had time to put her things down yet when her phone rang, but it wasn't an international number.<p>

"This is Detective Swan," she answered.

"Good morning, Ms. Swan, this is Mr. Gold."

_How does he have my desk number? _She thought quickly and answered faster. "Is something wrong?"

"I'd wanted to ask you the same thing," he answered, ambiguous as ever. "I've received word from our overseas office that Killian Jones has now been missing from work three days, and I was wondering if you knew something about why."

A knot of dread gripped onto her stomach. She kept it out of her voice. "I don't, and if I did, it's likely not something I'm authorised to disclose," she answered professionally. Gold made a sound of disapproval, but she continued before he could speak again. "Although, if it were my brother that had been killed, I would probably be with my family in mourning."

"Not that you have relevant experience to attest to with either."

Emma narrowly suppressed a gasp. There's no way he could have known that, unless—_Neal. _She paused, took a deep breath, and waited for him to continue.

"Ms. Swan, I don't know what my son disclosed to you or what images of my wrongdoing he may have planted in your head, but let me make one thing clear. This is not your fight."

She pictured him on the other line, fingers to his temples, staring knowingly at the receiver. Her reply was level, low, controlled. "Actually, it is. It became my fight the moment Liam's case fell under my jurisdiction. Whatever vendettas you may have against who killed him _are_ my fight. That's the law." She paused, briefly. "Do not threaten me."

Gold spoke immediately. "Well then, detective, if you're going to make this your fight, I would advise you to tread carefully." He hung up.

When she put the phone back on the receiver, Dr. Whale was standing by her desk.

"That didn't sound good."

"Irate family member," Emma answered without hesitating, leaning back in her chair. "What have you got?"

He came up to her desk, setting some of the papers he was holding in front of her before he answered. "I've been working on the autopsy since I saw you last week, mainly trying to identify the source of this poison. And that's the thing." He looked at her sideways, pointing to a section of one of his reports. "I can't find anything that matches. It doesn't match any known toxins in the system. But I'm _certain_ that whatever it is killed him. I can't explain this, but his body was already half-dead when he was attacked."

"How is that possible?" Emma picked up the file, examining the conclusions along with the possible explanations Dr. Whale had included, or rather _not_ included.

"I don't know. I'll keep working on it. But keep this, it may be useful to you. I have other copies on my computer."

She nodded, her eyes widening over the file as he walked away.

* * *

><p><em>I promised a lot of Killian this week, so, here. Almost a whole chapter of him. <em>

_Since I wrote this whole story over the summer, this chapter came into being before Sad!Hook basically took over the role in season four. Please tell me someone else noticed the switch. I miss his sass._

_The exposition is complete. Next chapter we rock the boat. Hard._

_See you then._


	7. The Impossible

**AN: **Ahem. Hem. Hmmmm.

Well, I made it halfway without a hitch in my posting schedule.

I'm very sorry for the delay in this chapter. A couple of y'all checked in that I was okay - I'm great, this has just been a strange few weeks. Among other developments, I have been sucked back into the world of novel editing and, in the process, happened upon an original work of my own that has been desiccating in my archives for the last five years. A few other developments have happened IRL as well. This chapter is currently unbetaed, but I'll be re-posting chapters as I hear back from my betas, **SaharaDesiderata **and **PhiraLovesLoki**. For now, though, this story will have to live with the edits I do myself.

This chapter has another kind of obscure intro, but stick with it. You guys trust me by now, I think. In the meantime, I'll be catching up with posts. And writing things. I'm writing lots of things. Stay tuned.

_Previously on _The Islander:_ After Detective Emma Swan found the body of Liam Jones in Central Park, she went to sleep that night and found herself in Neverland with Liam's brother, Killian. But Killian doesn't have his memories of the other side like Emma does – to rectify this problem, he ventured up the mountain and drank some of the spring water from the top. Now, he remembers everything. Meanwhile, Emma's problems are going from bad to worse: Graham has left the precinct, and Dr. Whale has discovered that Liam had an unknown toxin in his system when he died. And Neal has made a deal with an enemy of his father's…_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seven<br>**_The impossible_

_Albert Spencer was a predictable man. Conniving, but predictable. And he was the type to hold a grudge; an ouster as painful as his, surely the attorney wasn't fool enough to think there wouldn't be reciprocation._

_And this was a good play, even he had to admit that. The fact the trader even knew of the existence of Dreamshade was partly his fault—he'd seen Spencer pause in passing the day that snivelling rat, Smee, had had the nerve to sell him back the handpipes that had belonged to his father, the Pied Piper._

_He sighed. Spencer, always the greedy one. He'd followed the whole ordeal: Spencer tracking down Smee in his shop, Spencer uncovering the connection between the collector and Excalibur. While Spencer bode his time, their business relationship had developed over the span of a couple of years. He'd had the communications between the two of them monitored while Liam kept an eye on Excalibur's activity, masquerading his own investigations under a false company called J. O. R. Assets. _

_And of all the many developments Mr. Gold was watching of late, this, perhaps, was the most interesting. It had been nearly a year, now, since Albert Spencer had been axed from Roger and Stern. It had been a spectacle, albeit a private one; the man was a cad, everyone knew _that_, but Cora had pressured the board that the man at least be allowed to leave quietly. And so he had. _The man is a cat_, thought Gold. _Always seems to land on his feet._ It was less than a month before he was been taken in by Voyager rival Midas like a prodigal son. And just as quickly, his _talents_, as it were, made a reappearance in the financial sector. For Midas, he was a dream come true: everything the man touched seemed to turn to gold._

_He smirked at the turn of his own wit. It was true: even after Liam's death, Spencer was never far from his line of sight. And as Liam had unearthed, it was almost uncanny just how successful Albert had been as of late. A speculative trade in emergent fuel cells had soared only days before a shadow investor had poured over $1 billion into their development, causing its stock price to skyrocket exponentially over the course of just 72 hours. A similar arrangement ahead of the merger of two large Internet providers proved similarly lucrative. And now, the sleep drug. It was supposed to be going to trial soon. They'd been watching it over the days leading up to Liam's death. The company behind it, Georgios, was keeping very quiet about it, but Gold wasn't daft. _

_In fact, it was Spencer who had become arrogant and careless. It hadn't taken much digging on either his or Liam's part to put together the pieces. The secret to Spencer's success was not Midas but William Smee, the rat's substantial portfolio providing plenty of fodder for his own investments. And yet, there was something different about this particular arrangement than was the norm for Spencer of late. The drug was supposed to be going to trial—here he read, however, that Excalibur was _withdrawing_ its investment, not continuing it. Had Smee had a change of heart? Excalibur was only involved as a shadow, and very few knew exactly who it was that was leaving Georgios in the dust at the last minute. That didn't seem quite right. No, there was something else going on, here. _

_Spencer sitting back and taking a loss when he believed he'd orchestrated a sure victory went against the man's character. He'd kill his own son if it meant getting ahead. And it had been Liam who had discovered Spencer's fraudulent behaviour—the firm held the key to stopping him._

_Was it Spencer who'd killed Liam? He'd have to look into this._

_And who better to ask than the officers involved in his case?_

* * *

><p>This was getting weird. It took her several minutes to read through Dr. Whale's observations, then another few to read them again, stalling over every obstinate occurrence of words like <em>unknown<em> and _tissue decay_ in the text in front of her_. _She'd remembered what he'd said before about it possibly being a spider bite, then consciously ignored his later remark that he'd checked the toxin against every match in the system and come up blank. But what if there had been something he'd missed?

_Fat chance,_ a small voice in her mind nagged at her. But she ignored that, too.

So she turned to Google. Google wouldn't contradict her. There were spiders whose toxins resulted in tissue breakdown, yes, but though the pictures she unearthed of their bites were disturbing, none of them matched the picture's sprawling, almost rootlike exudation of dark purple from a single vein. From the photos in Dr. Whale's report, she could see the skin around the mark on Liam's arm was faintly grey. It made her stomach turn. Beneath it, a sediment of maroon where his arm rested on the table marked the artificially-prolonged effects of livor mortis from the chemicals preserving his body.

That was normal. The violet scrawl that mocked her from the photograph was not, and she stared at it as though willing it to reveal itself.

After a moment, though, she sighed. There wasn't much good that would come from this, and her meagre forensic biology classes in college were too far removed to be of use, now. Even if she went to the lab, which she didn't particularly want to do again, there wasn't much she could uncover by just staring at him. Liam Jones was still stabbed, that much she _did_ know—if he was poisoned, the chance was still alive that the person who stabbed him was also the person who poisoned him. It was a long shot, but it was the best she could do.

And then, her conversation with Gold jumped back into her memory.

_Killian Jones has been missing from work for three days,_ he'd said. Was it possible _Killian_ had been poisoned, too? Why was he gone? She'd attributed it to grieving, but Gold had wanted to know if she'd had something to do with it—had whoever had done this to Liam caught on to the fact she knew about the poison?

Considering she hadn't talked about it with anyone but Whale, that was also a long shot. But most things about this case were long shots, so she wouldn't overlook it. Besides, she _did_ have one way to find out: if Killian _was_ dead, he wouldn't be in Neverland anymore.

* * *

><p>Emma took the rest of the afternoon off. It had been several days since she'd slept well, and even if she hadn't left early, the prospect of a nap was tantalizing.<p>

She would have the house to herself for a few hours, but still, so as not to worry Henry if she _was_ out that long, she retreated to her room. It was tempting to take a few Advil PM to help speed the process along. But in the end she didn't have to. The instant she let herself relax, she was asleep. When Killian was waiting for her—not on the mountaintop, but on the beach, where she always seemed to land when she arrived—she almost wanted to cry with relief.

"Killian, you're alive," she said, taking a few steps toward him. He nearly levelled her with a look that was trying very hard not to be exasperated.

"Thank you for that observation," he quipped. But he softened a bit as he observed with equal astuteness, "You're back."

"I needed to make sure you were alive," she repeated. She was about to finish when he spoke over her.

"Why would you have doubts about that?"

She looked at him like he'd grown a third arm.

"Killian…you've been gone from work for three days. Long enough that Mr. Gold called me at _work_ and _threatened _me."

"No, that's impossible, it's only been three days _here_—" He cut himself off as he stood, though, and thought. As he did, so did she.

"Bloody _fucking_ hell," he suddenly spat. She turned toward him. "Of _course_ that's why you're back after only three days—I never _left._"

The pieces came quickly to her, then. _Time is normal for him here, now._ A night for her was normally weeks for him, and if it had only been three days, then something had changed about the way he experienced time. But the only thing that had changed, aside from the fact he wasn't on the mountaintop anymore, was that he had his memories back. At least, that's what he said before. _But a lot of damn good _that_ does if he's knocked out on the other end._

"_How did this happen." _It came out a statement, but it was a question.

"The water. It's the only thing that's different. When I drank it, it restored my memories," he rapped his hook against the tree branch above his head, "and evidently it _trapped_ me here."

"But that's impossible—"

"No, Swan, it's _not._" _Again_ with the look that could level an army. It made her want to freeze and throw her hands up in surrender all the same. "I don't know _what_ this world is, exactly, but if the poison that killed my brother could be taken _out,_ then it's certainly possible it could shut me _in._"

Her stomach sank into her feet. _No._ But even though it was the least believable part of this whole equation, it was the only thing that made _any_ sense. Dr. Whale had said the poison he'd found on Liam didn't match any known toxins in the system, and the system catalogued every toxin known to man. If it wasn't there, chances are it didn't exist in this world, or possibly even beyond it—it wouldn't have surprised her at all to find some trace, radioactive chemicals from asteroids within the bounds of possibility, but _this?_

This was a dream world. Admitting something from a dream world could kill someone was like fearing the ghost in the bedroom closet, and yet, it wasn't as though she could explain her acquaintance with Killian any better. But what the _hell_ did Neverland have to do with Liam's murder? And what _was_ this mysterious poison, anyway?

As though he could sense her question, he came over to her, shucking as much of his anger away as he could, and stopped, his eyes boring into hers. He nodded at her hand without breaking his gaze. "When I stopped you from taking hold of the vine on the mountain, I was stopping you from meeting the same fate as my brother. I already knew that's what killed him. I've known that since before I met you."

"How is that possible?" She felt like a broken record.

Killian ran his hand through his hair, breaking their gaze only to meet it again a moment later, weaker. Resigned. She could tell he was remembering something difficult.

"The first time I came to Neverland, I was with Liam." He exhaled. "We were sent, actually. Meant to retrieve it—it was alleged to have healing properties. He never told me why."

"I'm guessing that secret died with him?"

But the only answer she received were the sounds of the evening traffic outside her window.

* * *

><p>Killian swore when she disappeared before him. That was the problem with the dream world—when he'd first met her, he'd made it sound like she had absolute control of when she left. But it wasn't true. He knew that now. It wasn't true any more than he had control over the fact he was still here.<p>

Whereas before, time on Neverland was a blur, the receipt of his memories seemed to reconstruct time itself, bringing back to his active memory a lifetime of subliminal understanding of how it passed. As the hours dragged on, the wait for Emma became excruciatingly long.

Without her there, it was almost all he could think about. That, Liam, and the case. Supposedly, the case's resolution would bring him peace. He knew it had been Dreamshade that killed Liam, but the time before she was here last, Emma mentioned a murder weapon having been stolen from a pawn shop. That meant the pieces were all confused. It hadn't been Liam who'd taken the plant out of Neverland to begin with, as neither he nor his brother could take anything out of the dream world. It had to have been someone else.

Unless Liam had been back without him.

At that thought, Killian paused in his tracks. What he'd told Emma was true: the first time he'd seen Neverland, he'd been with Liam, and the last time he'd seen his brother in person had been several months ago, when he'd been on leave from work around the holidays. But that was _him, _not Liam. Their last trip to Neverland together was several months ago—it was certainly possible that Liam had been back after that.

Besides, when they'd gone together, they'd left the Dreamshade behind on purpose. He had no way of knowing whether it was possible to take something out of Neverland—he'd never tried it.

Killian's eyes went wide. It wasn't true. _He'd_ never tried it, but then he remembered: Liam had. When the Dreamshade had killed him in Neverland, it was how he'd been able to revive him—the second chance the island could only ever give to one person, and it was his idiot brother who'd gotten it—

_A lot of bloody good _that _did. _A bitter laugh escaped him. As he thought again about the fact Liam was dead, he remembered his most recent exchange with him. His brother had been tracing a series of moves tailing a hedge fund called Excalibur that pointed to insider trading; Liam had sent a few files over, requesting that Killian check his math before he submitted them as evidence in the case that was already forming around this before he sent it to the investigating committee.

He hadn't even started examining them yet when Liam had died. His memory of Liam sent him back to Neverland that night. And when he'd pledged to avenge his brother's death—when he'd wished and vowed all the same for just deliverance on this evil—that's when he'd met Emma.

The thought brought a smile to his lips, which grew a bit as he remembered she'd left him a voicemail. He'd never had the chance to return it. If time in Neverland for him now mirrored time in the real world, he'd been asleep, or whatever it is he was, since the previous Friday. If—_when,_ he corrected himself—he awoke again, he'd have to return it. Something about that woman had grabbed onto him with more force than a mind reeling with loss could explain.

He wished he could see him. Liam. As he did, a small glass ball materialised by his hand. He picked it up. It had what looked like octopus tentacles wrapped around it, and it was heavier than it appeared. He looked at it intently. And then its insides changed, a cloudy, purple smoke swirling around in it, revealing a table, a body half covered with a sheet, and a man in a white robe examining his brother's left arm.

The air would have drained out of his lungs had he a need to breathe. He threw the ball away from him. Yes, it was definitely Dreamshade. He wished he could tell the man in the white robe that he could stop scratching the ground for something that didn't exist in his world.

The ball reappeared next to him. He stared at it, annoyed, until it swirled purple again. He watched as the computer monitor to the right of the examiner flickered to life. He glanced up at the change in lighting. Then, he dropped his penknife. Killian heard the small _click_ on the floor when it met the concrete.

Across the monitor, in small, neat letters, the words wrote themselves across the screen: _You can stop scratching the ground for something that doesn't exist in this world._

* * *

><p>The day seemed to drag by once Emma was awake again. At some point, she'd gotten a call on her cell from Neal that Excalibur—<em>Smee,<em> she corrected herself—was the shadow investor who'd pulled out of an investment he'd taken the place of, asking her to let him know if she found out the man was onto something. _He is a suspect,_ she thought, and agreed, under the condition that he not ask her to violate norms of disclosure again. The implications of what he was saying didn't occur to her immediately—the nap had numbed her brain, and without Graham there to help her anymore, she didn't have as much of an idea what she was doing with the financial side of the case. It was harder than not to keep from feeling at sea.

Instead, she poured every ounce of her remaining mental energy into fixing dinner for Henry. Mary Margaret had taught her how to make tater tots when they were living in the co-op; the monotony of shredding the potatoes, forming the mixture into balls, and rolling them in flour and breadcrumbs set her mind at ease. Still, as she felt herself slip into the "case mode" she was finding it harder and harder to stay out of, she burned the first batch, setting those aside for herself. She was halfway through preparing the second batch when there was a knock at the door.

_Henry wouldn't knock_, she thought, setting her oily tongs on a tray and making her way to the front door.

Through the peephole was not Henry, nor anyone she recognised, but a woman, probably Ruby's age, with gorgeous, wavy red hair and the expression of a lost child written all over her face. Emma's heart tugged, so she unlatched the deadbolt and opened the door.

"Hi, can I help you?"

"Are you detective Emma Swan?" she asked a little uncertainly. Emma looked at her sideways, the other eye on her gun in the credenza drawer beside her.

"Yes, who are you?"

The woman bit her lip before responding.

"My name is Ariel Fisher, and I know who killed Liam Jones."

* * *

><p><em>Pardon my drama. We're back on Monday.<br>_

**_Terms:_**

_Speculative trade: a trade undertaken whose outcome could go one of a few ways, but which has been undertaken with the understanding that the likely reward more than offsets potential losses. Basically, a calculated risk. In the fuel cell example, the first investor invests in the cells right before another investor comes in and pours a bunch of money into their development, all but assuring they would go into production. A development like that would be considered fishy._


	8. The Truth

**AN:** I've gone over this chapter a few times myself, but this chapter is unbetaed. Pardon any mistakes.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eight<br>**_The truth_

Emma nearly felt the wind get knocked out of her. She heard herself gasp before responding.

"Ariel," was all she said at first. She closed her mouth, breathed once. "I thought you were—"

"Dead?" She finished for her, stepping inside. Emma closed the door behind her, stared at it a moment, and locked the deadbolt again for good measure. "I had a feeling he'd say that. What did he tell you? Killed? Suicide?"

"Car crash," Emma answered in an exhale, not yet realising she was answering two questions at once.

"That was my next guess," Ariel added. Her confidence was returning. She paused, then, sniffing the air. "Do I smell something burning?"

Emma's eyes went wide a moment and she made her way into the kitchen, shutting the stove off without taking her eyes off Ariel.

"Thanks," she said a little awkwardly.

"No problem." The younger girl smiled, meeting Emma's eyes. "So, why I'm here."

"Can we start with how that's possible?" Emma halfway demanded. "As far as I knew until now, you and your boyfriend were killed two weeks ago in a car crash on Long Island."

Ariel laughed a bit. "You know, that's actually really good. My car was stolen about a month ago. I didn't have any idea who did it. Now I think I do." Ariel bit her thumbnail, shaking her head. "That way he could make it _look_ like I was dead."

Emma narrowed her eyes a bit. "Who is 'he?'"

Ariel snapped her attention back to Emma. "The guy who wants to kill me. Albert Spencer."

Emma stared at her a moment. Then, she ran through everything she knew.

It was less than she thought. She knew Spencer was the one who'd set Neal up last week; it was Smee, however, that Neal asked her to keep an eye on, Smee being the one, for all she knew, that was funding Spencer's illegal trade scheme. It seemed, at any rate, like the two were working together. And now, here was Ariel, who was supposed to be dead, telling her Albert Spencer wanted to kill her.

From what Neal had said, it also seemed pretty clear that Spencer wanted to cheat him. The more she thought about it, the guiltier he looked. But even then, that explanation still left a lot of pieces unaccounted for—most importantly, why Liam was dead in the first place, and what the hell Ariel had to do with it.

_So now, Ariel thinks Spencer stole her car,_ she thought. If it turned out to be true, that would be excellent—a piece of hard, irrefutable evidence that he'd broken the law, one that could be very easily used as an anchor charge if she needed to buy time to get him on something better. On the other hand, collecting that evidence would be difficult. The car had been totalled, and after it had been collected from the crash site and thoroughly examined by the forensics team, it was probably on its way to what was left of it being junked. It would probably take CCTV footage to get Spencer on that, and collecting that would take a lot of time she didn't have right now.

But then, she remembered what Gold had said. It had been Liam that had uncovered Spencer's trade scheme. As Gold had reminded her then, if either he or Smee were behind his murder, she would have her motive. _That would be a better charge._ But she also remembered the case file. The fingerprints on the knife had been Ariel's.

And then, it dawned on her. It had been a rookie mistake. She'd written Ariel off as a suspect because she was dead.

And now she wasn't. She was here, sitting across from her at the counter, and Emma's gun was in the credenza by the door.

She'd been about to grab it when Ariel had smelled something burning.

She'd left it to go turn off the stove.

Emma stood up.

"What's wrong?" Ariel asked innocently.

Emma looked at her sideways, taking a couple of steps back toward the door. "I think you know what's wrong." She watched Ariel's expression become confused. "We found your prints on the knife that killed Liam Jones."

Her hand found the drawer she kept her gun in, and she opened it, but didn't remove it. Ariel's eyes went wide.

"NO!" she shouted. She shot out of her seat. Emma removed the gun and held it facing down, ready to fire.

Ariel held her hands in front of her. She shook her head furiously. "No, it's not like that! I don't know how, but someone's trying to frame me—look, I have the knife right here!"

She dug in her purse a moment and produced a small, old-style bowie knife with a BB insignia on the handle.

"It was my great-grandfather's. He was a fisherman. He had several, just like this one. Wouldn't use anything else."

Emma was silent. She'd always been able to tell when people were lying, and Ariel wasn't. She held out her hand to accept the knife, which Ariel handed to her—but she didn't let go of her gun, either. She examined it a moment. Ariel was right: it was a dead ringer for the murder weapon, which she knew for certain to be in evidence lockup in the Forensics department. Breaking in there was out of the question.

And yet, impossible was the norm for this case. She looked at the knife again, then at Ariel, and narrowed her eyes.

"You need to explain this."

"I don't know if I can." Ariel looked down, shaking her head again, sadly this time. "I don't know if you'll be able to believe anything I say. But I didn't kill Liam. Whoever did just finished him off."

Ariel swallowed. She still didn't look up. When she spoke again, after several moments, it sounded like she was fighting tears.

"It was the Dreamshade that killed him."

Emma looked at her blankly, setting the knife on the counter. "Dreamshade."

"From Neverland," Ariel explained. Emma raised a brow. "I'm not crazy, I swear. Dreamshade is a poison. It grows in a thick, purple vine with thorns, especially around the mountain—"

"I know," Emma cut her off as her tone grew hysterical. She took a long breath, assessing how to proceed—even if Ariel knew that much about Neverland, there was still no way to be sure she had been there herself. Someone may have told her, and revealing that _she_ had been there could put them both in danger.

She decided to play the cop.

"It's okay, Ariel. How was he poisoned?"

Ariel had been looking off into the kitchen as she deliberated. When she looked back at Emma, she was openly crying. Despite the situation, the girl's tears tugged at the mother in her, and Emma found herself fighting the urge to envelop her in a hug.

"He poisoned himself." Emma's eyes went wide. "I don't know why. He was probably threatened." Ariel wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "In fact, I'm sure he was threatened. But the poison was slower than he thought it would be on this side. No one knew how fast it would work here, not even Liam. He had time to tell his brother what had happened. And once someone else knew about Dreamshade in this world, it was only a matter of time before they connected all the pieces back—"

"To Spencer?" Emma asked. "Is that who threatened him?"

When Ariel shook her head, Emma raised a brow.

"It's complicated. Spencer asked me to get the poison, but he wasn't the one…" She trailed off, her voice growing softer.

"Who did it, then? Who threatened him?"

Ariel met her eyes again. Hers were glassy. She took a breath, steeling herself. "He said his name was Graham. Graham Humbert."

* * *

><p>Killian couldn't look away. It was like a window through worlds. It may well have <em>been<em> just that—so, to verify, he wished he could tell the man in the white coat that he knew what the poison was.

The first message was erased, the new letters flickering across the screen a moment later. _I know what the poison is._

The man just stared at the screen, dumbfounded. This was impossible. But when the message didn't immediately erase, he collected his thoughts, questioning weakly, "How."

Killian didn't answer that. He just wished he could tell the man it was called Dreamshade.

_It's called Dreamshade. _A few seconds later, he added, _Want to check?_

After a moment, the man nodded. The screen went black, then flickered on to reveal the doctor's backdrop. Once the computer had turned on, he searched the system for 'Dreamshade,' 'Dream shade,' 'Dreamshade poison,' and every variation he could think of, coming up blank each time. As he paused for a moment, gripping his chin in deliberation, the computer shut off, and the white screen came back up.

_I told you it's not of this world._

"Who are you?" the man asked the empty lab.

Killian smirked at the ball. _I am Captain Hook._

"What, like from Peter Pan?" The doctor let out a mirthless laugh, but the cursor just flickered as though unamused.

_It comes from Neverland._

The doctor stared at the screen a moment. "That was funny the first time. It's not funny again."

_Go ahead, look. You won't find anything like it in your world._

When the doctor didn't immediately proceed toward the computer again, Killian continued.

_Wait, haven't you already tried that?_

"So you're an arrogant ghost. Wonderful. Anything else I need to know?"

Killian erased the text. The cursor flickered. It had been over a week since Liam's death in his world—in all likelihood, the doctor already knew how the poison worked, probably much better than he did.

What _would_ he need to know? As he thought about it, he couldn't think of much. While the way Dreamshade arrived in that world might be interesting, it wouldn't actually help him. But then it occurred to him: this doctor was working on Liam's body. That meant he was in Emma's precinct. The information he had wasn't of use to _him_, but it would be to Emma. He could get a message to her.

He decided to bait him.

_If I were to tell you how Dreamshade arrived to your world, would you deliver a message for me?_

"Yes," the doctor responded.

_Alright, then. Sit back._

So Killian told him. It took several messages that filled the entire screen to explain that Liam had originally been sent to retrieve the poison by request of a licensing investigator named Albert Spencer. At the time, he'd understood it to have healing properties; Spencer had a hedge fund investor who wanted to buy the rights from him.

Killian had been with him at the time. He had challenged his brother's reasoning, warned him it was probably a trick. Warned him not to get involved, that if Spencer wanted this so badly he should have been able to get it himself. But as though to prove him wrong, ease his worries, whatever, Liam had picked up a bunch of the stuff and raked it down his left arm.

"So it was a suicide? How does that explain the stabbing?"

_I was getting there._

"Bloody detective," Killian swore to himself.

It hadn't been a suicide. The first time was an accident; the second time, Liam had been threatened, along with several others if he didn't comply. When he'd used the Dreamshade on himself again, he'd known that time what it would do. Since he was going to be killed either way, he did the honourable thing.

The doctor was quick, though. "But, wait," he said once Killian finished. "If he'd used this same poison on himself when he was with you, how did he survive?"

_He didn't._

After a long moment, Killian continued. _He died the first time. It wasn't the Dreamshade that has healing properties. There is a spring, here, with the power to heal. Its waters revived him. But there is a catch._

_Normally, those who try to leave Neverland after being revived by the spring die. Unless a trade is made._

"A trade?"

Killian took a long breath before continuing. _The heart of the truest believer._ _He came to Neverland as a boy, and his heart is here. Or, was. Liam traded his own heart for the boy's in order to be able to return. _

Killian had learned what had happened when he'd drunk the water. The boy had first come to Neverland years ago, when the island was dying. It was the reason he'd been brought there—his heart could restore it, but it would be costly. He'd have to leave his heart behind in order to be able to return to his own. He couldn't stand the thought—on the other hand, nor could he stand the thought of the island where he'd had so many adventures with his friends just _dying. _So he'd made his choice. Being a child at the time, he hadn't known what it would entail.

He watched Whale shake his head. It was totally unbelievable. But its incredulity, he realised, was exactly what made it true. Neverland was the definition of the impossible. It was a dream world—it was supposed to be.

_I need you to relay this information to Emma Swan in as much detail as you can._

The doctor nodded his agreement. "Every word. Do you know who the boy is?" He asked the monitor.

_Yes. But he's not a boy anymore. _Killian bit the knuckle of his thumb, deliberating a moment before deciding to proceed. After a moment, he nodded to himself. She would need to know.

_Her partner. Graham._

* * *

><p><em>Ariel was remarkable. He didn't know how she'd done it. One moment, she was there, in front of him, asleep on his couch, that boyfriend of hers stroking her hand and looking at her like she was made of diamonds. The next, she was awake, her previously empty right hand clutched around a small vial of water so pure it almost sparkled.<em>

_It had been a long shot, but when he'd heard of the girl with the rare ability to cross realms, he had to be sure. The fact he didn't have a heart meant he couldn't return to Neverland himself, not without help—so when he'd heard of her, he sent for her, and upon explaining his condition and the reason he needed to return to Neverland, she had only been too enthusiastic to retrieve the spring water that would allow him to go back._

_His was a malady that was otherworldly in its effects. It had been many years since he'd given the island his heart in order to help it survive. He'd only been a child when he'd done it, but it was a choice he lived with daily in the form of a diminished emotional capacity and the feeling like someone was holding his heart in their hand. For a long time, the reward of knowing he'd saved a realm was worthwhile in itself. He'd learned to live with these consequences. But then everything had changed. A man with no heart should have been literally incapable of love, especially like this, but Emma—_

_It was becoming harder to control. After many, many years of being completely fine, as though nothing were out of the ordinary, suddenly, he was dying. For a man to love like he loved Emma without a heart to contain it was a slow death, a death that only grew more painful as his love for her got stronger. _

_His lack of a heart was literally killing him. It wasn't natural for someone to survive this long without one. Initially, he'd thought he'd survived because he didn't love. But it was more than that. He was emotionless, neither happy nor unhappy, incredibly skilled at his job because he was entirely undisrupted by feelings. Until he met Emma. It had started not long after he'd arrived at the bureau: he'd quickly developed a healthy level of respect for his partner, for her quick retorts, capabilities, and her self-assured, worldly way of doing things. He'd grown fond of her. And then it all began to spiral out of control. It had to stop. It had to stop before he did something stupid, something that could get them both hurt. _

_He had to get his heart back – or he had to win hers._

_Graham looked at the vial for a moment. Around the sides were shallow, intricate marks almost like scales. The shimmering liquid inside was purported to have healing properties. _

_He removed the stop._

"_Wait, Graham," she said. "Don't drink that yet. She said there was a catch."_

_He looked at her. "Who told you that?"_

"_Ursula." She raised her hand a bit, as though to take back the vial, before she realised what she was doing. She'd already given it to him. It was too late. It was up to him, now. "When I was there, she said someone had taken your heart."_

_He felt his stomach clench. No. That couldn't be. He felt the air being squeezed out of his lungs. His heart couldn't be gone. That would ruin everything. He needed his heart. His love for Emma was growing stronger, not weaker - without it he'd be dead in a matter of weeks. _

_But then, he realised: if his heart was gone, the island should have been dead._

_And yet, Ariel had only just returned. He worked out the pieces quickly. Since Ariel was able to not only go to Neverland but to speak to Ursula and return here, that meant the island was still alive. If the island were still alive, that would mean a trade had been made. Someone had taken his heart and left their own. But _that_ meant that, in all likelihood, there was someone walking around in this world right now with his heart in their chest._

_It was simple, then. He had to get it back._

"_Did she say who took it?"_

_Ariel looked at Eric. The look of uncertainty in her eyes was unmistakable and heartwrenching. Her boyfriend nodded as he assured her it was okay: "Tell him what you know."_

_Ariel met Graham's eyes. And then she told him who took his heart._

* * *

><p><strong><em>Terms:<em>**

_Licensing investigator: there are all kinds of licenses that products, people, and businesses have to obtain in the United States - a licensing investigator is someone whose job it is to find out whether things are properly certified. Sometimes they double as lawyers and/or private detectives.  
><em>


End file.
